


Acts of Mercy

by AnAuthorByAnyOtherName



Series: Immunity Series [1]
Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games), Valve - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, CEDA (Left 4 Dead), Friendship/Love, Game: Left 4 Dead 2, Gen, Green Flu (Left 4 Dead), Hunter - Freeform, I wrote this in 2011 and I felt like sharing, Left 4 Dead - Freeform, Left 4 Dead OC, Male-Female Friendship, Survivor - Freeform, cured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnAuthorByAnyOtherName/pseuds/AnAuthorByAnyOtherName
Summary: Marcy doesn't want to deal with the zombie apocalypse. So, at the first sign of trouble, she leaves for the North, staying in a nuclear-warfare Cabin built by her father. When a zombie does come, however, she finds something unexpected, and she has to ask herself: Can mercy be an option when you're trying to survive? Rated M for language and violence.





	1. Signs of the End Times

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer #1  
I do not own Left 4 Dead, or Left 4 Dead 2, or any of the characters featured here as they are depicted in the game. This is my interpretation of the story written by, and owned by, the Valve Corporation. I am not associated with Valve, or Gabe Newell, in any way. (If I was, I’d tell him to finish Half Life 3.)  
All and any OC’s here are of my own invention. I only request that you give credit to me if you use them in another fanfic/fanart/what-have-you.
> 
> Disclaimer #2  
This is a Left 4 Dead story that has very little to do with Left 4 Dead.  
Sure, it’s set in the same timeline (Roughly) and the same universe, but the story is not centered on Zoey, or Bill, or Francis, or Ellis, or Coach, or any of the other main characters in the games. Sorry, I don’t do canon-writing that well.  
I may or may include them in cameos, but only time will tell in terms of that. Otherwise, sit back, relax, and enjoy the story that has driven me to madness. Read it, review it, and please show a little mercy when you do so.

You could call me pretty genre-savvy, if there’s a word for it.

I guess it comes down to my upbringing; being raised by a survival nut does wonders for inherent paranoia. You see, Dad went beyond the usual “Keep a 1st-aid kit nearby and some spare batteries in case of a blackout” thing everyone else does. 

When it came to disasters, Dad was like those dudes who stand on street corners holding up signs and yelling “The end is near!” ‘Cept, instead of yelling at people and handing out pamphlets, Dad _ prepared _.

Dad had every single survival book ever written, from _ Alaskan Wilderness Living _ to _ The Zombie Survival Guide. _ (Well, the last one was a gag gift from my Uncle Whit, but Dad kept it on the shelf all the same.) 

Dad made me take combat medical courses, the ones where you learn to saw off a leg in the middle of a battlefield. 

Dad built a nuclear-warfare cabin in the middle of the Maine wilderness “Just in case.” (More on that later.)

I don’t know why Dad was like that. Maybe there was something wrong with his head. Maybe it was just a quirk he had. In any case, he made sure to impress his survival doctrine on me during the duration of my tender, sensitive, childhood years. This has done two things to me.

  1. It has made me a cynical bastard. (Nothing makes for cynicism than being told that humanity will probably fall into anarchy and chaos, at the age when most kids are still on _Blue’s Clues)_
  2. It has made me paranoid as hell.

Not that paranoia is a bad thing. It certainly saved my ass several times, not the least during the Green Flu Outbreak.

They say it started in Pennsylvania. Patient Zero reported into Mercy Hospital on September 18th, reporting dizziness, vomiting, headaches, and an urge to murder every living thing within their immediate vicinity. 

And that was just the beginning.

By day two, it was out and beyond the hospital. Everywhere else, people dismissed it as ‘just another flu,’ but I knew better. The quarantines; the blocked news reports; the glint in official’s eyes as they said “Yes, yes, it’s all under control.” Right then my BS detector went off, and a little voice in my head said, _ something is coming. And it isn’t good. _

So, I decided to get the hell out of dodge. The last thing I needed was to be fighting for my life out of the city with some other weirdos I didn’t know but was forced to team up with in the name of survival. Seriously, who would _ want _ to do that? I asked my neighbor to water the plants, told my boss I’d be gone, and left before the shit hit the fan (And when it did, it hit it _ hard) _ up to The Cabin.

* * *

To call The Cabin as a little side project of Dad’s would be a grievous insult to him, and he’d probably come back as a ghost and kick my ass if I referred to it as such. Besides, it would be a gross understatement. The Cabin wasn’t just a place. It was a state of mind. An embodiment of safety; of preparedness; of survival. It was a fortress of solitude, independence, and MRE’s. (Which could be also be used as building materials in a pinch, but unfortunately, Dad decided to stick with wood.) 

It started 20-odd years ago, as a side project. (Dadpleasedon’tkickmyass!) He bought it, dirt-cheap, off of a deer-hunter up in Maine who was “Gettin’ too old for this BS”. (Whatever _ that _ meant) 

Before Dad starting, ah, _ modifying _ it, the cabin (Lowercase here) was pretty simple; a couple of bedrooms, one main room, an old woodstove, and a small basement. No running water (Unless you counted the pump outside) no electricity, and about 150 or so miles from the nearest little ramshackle farm you could call ‘civilization’. 

It was (To Dad, at least) perfect.

He poured his money, time and (Probably) love into that damn kid thing. Oh, it started innocently enough; 1st it was, ‘stock the cellar with a few provisions.’ Then, it was ‘turn the entire cellar into a fallout shelter.’ The, it was ‘turn the entire damn thing into a fallout shelter.” 

As you can see, it escalated pretty quickly.

When I was younger, it wasn’t as big a part in my life as it was later. At that point, it was just someplace north of us that we’d visit occasionally. But, as time went on, it crept into my (And Dad’s) life, to such an extent where it became like a second child of sorts. There were three piles of presents under the tree come Christmas time: For me, for Dad, and for The Cabin. I spent my summer vacation not at Disneyworld, or at camp, or even at home; Instead, I’d be in the middle of nowhere, Maine, helping put in solar panels/set up barbed wire/stock the woodshed/whatever Dad felt The Cabin needed added. 

Hell, he even judged my first car on whether it could make it up to The Cabin. Yep, he selected the very first vehicle that he bought for me based, not on cost, or on whether I’d like it, but on whether it could make it up to a goddamn log house hundreds of miles away from us.

I might sound bitter.

In fact, I’m not. Sure, I would occasionally resent the fact that sometimes, the only thing on Father-dear’s mind was _ CabinCabinCabinCabinCabin _ and wonder if maybe he could inject the name _ Marcy _ in between all the _ Cabin _s. I even wondered if he loved it more than I did. 

But, sometimes, he’d make little comments like _ We’ll be safe and sound here _ or _ I won’t have to worry _and all that, and I’d kind of half-listen, ‘till one day it hit me like a ton of bricks falling from the sky:

_ Dad loved me through The Cabin. _

All the crazy stuff he added on to it, from the basement to the drying shed to the MRE’s (As horrible as they were) was his way of saying _ I love you _ , because he built that Cabin not just for him to survive, but for me to survive, too, right there with him. Looking back, some of my best memories are sitting there with him, repairing the roof, or taking stock, or the million other things he could be come up with to make The Cabin safe and comfortable, for him, and me, too. And all the whole time, he was telling me _ I love you, Marzia, and I want you to be safe no matter what happens, _ ‘cept he’d be saying it in his own way, which was by preparing for the worst to come, instead of just saying it.

Love’s a funny language, when you look at it.

Frankly, I think the way Dad told me was the most honest way of saying it that he could, and a hella lot more sincere than most ways people say _ I love you. _ Words are only sounds, anyways, and sounds are vibrations, which go away, fading into entropy in the air.

I don’t think you could make that Cabin go away, no matter how hard you tried.

I love you too, Dad.

Though he prepared for the more spectacular kinds of disasters, Dad died in the most unspectacular way possible, which is why I think God is a sadistic bastard.

I found him in his apartment just hours after he died, lying in his chair with a copy of _The Vault Dweller’s Survival Manual, Pocket Edition_ in his hands, and a blood clot in his brain, according to the doctors.

I scattered his ashes by the Cabin. It’s what he would have wanted.

* * *

That was a year ago. Cue back to now, where I’m buying a candy bar at a convenience store and waiting to pay for gas. I’m nearing ‘ramshackle farm town’ territory, and the last thing I need is an empty tank with only cows to help me. 

The station clerk was a middle-aged man with the sort of look that said he was happy with his lot in life. (Which is saying a lot for his disposition, with him being a gas-station clerk. Make of it what you will.) He was cheerful enough to actually attempt to start a conversation with me.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked as he rang up my candy bar and a tank full of gas. I gave a non-committal shrug. 

“Just taking a little break from work to come up here. Y’know, see the colors, get away from it all.” I decided beforehand not to reveal anything about my true intentions; I didn’t really want any half-starved townspeople ramming down the perfectly nice door to The Cabin in two weeks, because of my loose tongue. It was just the right season for tourists, too; for some unexplainable reason, people from the south feel strongly compelled to watch a bunch of trees turn yellow and orange at certain times of the year. 

It seemed to convince the clerk, anyways; He nodded to me as he handed over my receipt and change. 

“I’m just glad I’m up here.” He said. “I heard that Green ‘flu down south is spreading pretty quick. Kids around here are saying is a zombie apocalypse or somethin’…”

I smirked. “Feh, it’s probably just an overreaction.” I said, pocketing the money. “It’ll blow itself out in two weeks, and no-one’ll be the wis-“

The metallic _ ding-ding _of the store’s door sensor cut me off, and a heaving, gasping man stumbled in.

He was clutching his arm, and looked deathly pale, his eyes wild, and full of fear.

“Max!” Cried the cashier, seeing the man. “What the hell happened to you?!”

The man wheezed, still clutching his arm, which I now noticed was bloody. “Some sicko over at Hale’s jumped me…bit me” he managed to gasp out. “Managed to outrun him…” he gulped. “Feel c’ld...” The man collapsed to the floor.

The clerk grabbed the phone under the counter, and started to dial what I presumed was 911, and I nearly went to help the poor bastard on the ground.

Something made me stop.

_ This isn’t right. _ I thought. This wasn’t the look of someone who just has a fright; this guy looked right-out sick. Pale skin, the coughing…

The fact he was growling.

The cashier put down the phone now. “Don’t worry, Max, they’ll be here in 15 minutes…” he said, starting to make his way around the counter. I blocked him with my arm, however, before he could get any closer. “Wait.” I said, never taking my eyes off the man.

The cashier shoved my arm away. “He needs medical attention!” he hissed, starting to push past me. “Right, Max?” he asked, glancing back at the prone man.

Only, Max wasn’t lying down any more.

He was rising, slowly, awkwardly, like a man not used to walking. He stopped clutching his arm, and was mumbling words to himself that I couldn’t quite make out. “Max?” asked the clerk, a little tendril of fear in his voice. 

At the sound, the man shot his head up. His eyes were black, all the way through, and the snarl he gave was totally inhuman. With an angry howl, he launched himself, arms out, at the cashier, who screamed.

Max crumpled to the ground, a bullet hole sprouted from his head.

I flicked the safety back on the handgun as I strapped it (Carefully) back into my holster, silently thanking the fact Dad loved me enough to make me learn quick-draw.

I turned to the cashier, my face stony.

“It’s not a flu, mister, whatever the hell it is.” 

The clerk was still standing there, dumb-founded, unable to tear his eyes from the body of the luckless Max.

“And it’s on the move.”

No going back now, was there?

“I recommend you do the same.”

The clerk nodded, finally taking his eyes away from the corpse. He reached under counter, and grabbed a .22 rifle, cocking it with his hand. “That’s what I’m gonna do, miss.” He said, nodding, as he made his way to the door. “I have a family to go to.”

_ Good for you. _I thought, absentmindedly, as I wondered where he got the gun from in a boondocks place like this.

He nodded to me as he grabbed the door handle. “You saved my life.” The clerk tossed me something jangling, which I caught without looking at it. “Help yourself.” He said, pulling the door open, and running off to who-knows-where, leaving me alone in an empty store, with a dead zombie and the ding-ding of the door tone for company.

I looked at the object the cashier had tossed me. It was the keys to the store, and the gas-pumps.

I grinned.

* * *

I have this state of mind Dad used to call my dead-mode. It was when I just stopped giving a damn about anything, and just got on with life. I didn’t stop to panic, or even to contemplate the grimness of situation; for me, it would just be business as usual. It only happened once in a while; I’d had my fair share of freak-outs in life, where the panic would rise in my chest and the fear would settle in my stomach like a badly-digested lunch, and basically go nuts. 

But, sometimes, I’d just go cold. 

Eyes glazed over, my mind worried about different, less important things, while the world burned around me. 

I guess us humans can do that (To a lesser extent) all their lives. It’s why you see people crying over which celebrity asshole broke up with some other celebrity asshole, yet they don’t care about EMPs or impeding nuclear war or, in this case, a zombie virus threatening to destroy the world. 

Maybe all my non-worry is bottled up in me, since I never did use it on celebrities, or what-have-you, and actually _ did _ worry about stuff that mattered. I’m not sure. But whatever it is, I’d just get all eerie-calm and go around like the world _ wasn’t _falling into chaos around me.

This was one of those times.

I could have been worried about the man I just killed. I wasn’t.

I could have been wondering what life would mean to me now that my home city was probably overrun with millions of bloodthirsty, crazed cannibals, or what happened to my fellow students at the university. To be frank, I could have cared less.

Hell, I could’ve even wondered of that clerk got out OK. 

But, nope, I was worried about candy bars. How many I would need to make it up to The Cabin without any more stops, to be exact. I didn’t feel like making any more pit stops, in any case, if this was the scenario I’d have to go through every time I needed to gas up. I settled on raiding the whole stock, and went out to load up the tank.

Later, I’d care about what happened. I’d look back at that incident, like someone watching a movie, and not remembering an experience they had, and I’d think about what a cold, cruel bastard I was then. I’d spend my time worrying about Max, and the clerk, and my neighbor, and everything else I left behind, and I’d let it weigh me down with regret and fear, and let it eat away at me a little bit.

But for now, I was in my own little void of what they call ‘Not Giving a Fuck at All’. 

I guess it goes to show. I’m not sure _ what _, exactly, but I’m sure it shows something.

* * *

Dead-mode or no, the rest of the day was pretty quiet. I had yet to see very many zombies; One of ‘em tried to jump me while I was loading up the gas-cans I brought with me, but a bullet through the head shut him up. 

What scared me, though, even through the coldness, was how _ fast _these bastards were. While I wasn’t much of a movie junkie (Dad generally didn’t approve of them) I’d seen my fair share of zombie flicks, and in all of them, they were slow; shambling, shuffling, walking-- Not lunging and running, for God’s sake! Whatever the hell this virus was, man, it was fucked up.

Either way, I wasn’t disturbed for the hour and a half it to me to ride up there. Nothing but cows and grass and trees, and no zombies to mess up the view. 

It was only early dusk when I arrived, but it was still surprisingly dark, without any other light than the fading sun, and my car lamps. The air was fresher and cleaner up here, and I knew that as soon as I opened the door to The Cabin, I would be greeted by the smell of wood, of smoke, and of old rooms.

I was home.


	2. Where There's Smoke

I’ll spare you the tedium of me taking inventory, or of all the dusting I had to do, or the time when I had to chase a badger out of the outhouse with a broom. (Well, the last one was less tedious, but I digress.) 

This might be a story about survival, but there are hundreds of books out there about that sort of thing, and probably better-written than this one. Go read them. Now. 

In the meantime, I won’t write about the every-day bits (‘Cept maybe the badger, but that’s for another time.) I’ll skip to about a week after I arrived, when things started to be less about MRE’s and dust, and more about zombies.

* * *

You know how I mentioned my genre-savvy earlier? And how it told me something nasty was on the way, as soon as I heard about the Green Flu? It was right. Two days after I got there, whenever I flicked on the radio, it was either CEDA warnings about quarantine, and safe rooms, and all that crap, or people crying out for help. They’d be miles off, sure, but it hurt me all the same to hear them. From what I could catch, the virus was way beyond Philly, even past where I stopped for gas. I stopped listening after a while, and just thank whatever God was up there (And Dad, of course) for The Cabin.

Besides the radio messages, I’d settled into a fairly peaceful routine, keeping myself occupied and the Cabin running. Get up, exercise, eat breakfast, (MREs, yum-yum) take inventory…

It all just ran together, anyways. Looking back, I don’t even remember those first 7 or so days. I only start remembering after the Helicopter Incident.

* * *

On that fateful morning, I woke up to the sight of the world burning.

Well, not the whole world burning, actually. Just a little part of it. A pillar of smoke, anyways, from south of The Cabin, and fairly deep into the woods. 

Crap.

I was dressed and out the door within minutes. I didn’t take much with me but my handgun (Which I always had on me, in any case) as I wanted to see what the hell was going on. The day was surprisingly warm for a Maine October, so I was wearing a light sweater, cargo pants and my usual combat boots. 

It didn’t take me that long to get to the source of the smoke; it was only about ½ mile from The Cabin; and even then, I could easily see the cause through the nearly-bare trees, their leaves stripped by the change of the seasons.

It was a helicopter.

Not a functioning helicopter, of course. It had landed in a clearing, like the person piloting it had actually tried to make a landing, but had failed miserably. It seemed to have skidded on impact with the ground, diving nose-first into a boulder. The blades dented spun lazily in the wind, and smoke poured from the dead engine.

There were no other sounds was the whistle of the wind, and the occasional  _ pang _ of the rapidly cooling metal.

“Hello?” I called, listening for, well, anything; Threats, call for help; just a sign that there was something alive in there. 

Nothing replied.

I tried to calm the rising feeling of panic in my chest, as I edged closer to the chopper. 

_ Helicopters don’t just crash for no reason, Marcy. _ I thought, my alarm growing by the minute.  _ Something made that thing take a nose-dive, and it might not have been just engine issues. _

I looked into the downed copter through the side. The inside was fairly dark, but I could see a dim outline of the interior.

“Hello?” I called again, the sound of my voice making a tinny echo around the helicopter.

Still, nothing.

Testing for stability with my foot beforehand, I climbed into the aircraft, carefully scanning back and forth for, well,  _ anything _ ; Salvageable items, bodies, even a zombie to fight.

There weren’t any zombies, but I spotted a flash of beige on one of the seats in the back. It turned out to be a manila folder, full of files, and heavy in my hand as I picked it up.

There was something stamped on the cover, but I couldn’t make out what it said through the gloom. It was probably important, though, so I stuffed it on my inside sweater pocket for later.

It was only then that I noticed the blood on the floor.

My heart rate went up by a factor of 10, and I actually had my pistol out and in my hand. I wished, desperately, that my dead-calm mode would come on, but fate decided to screw my ass over at that point and leave me to stew in my rising panic.

My eyes followed the smeared trail of bodily fluids up to the ajar door of the helicopter’s cabin. Gripping my Glock tightly, I forced myself to walk towards the doorway, nudging the door open with my foot, but too reluctant to enter.

I steeled my nerves, and shoved myself inside, dreading what waited my there, and aiming my pistol at the first humanoid thing I saw.

There were no zombies there.

It was  _ much _ worse. 

A dead pilot. 

A very dead pilot.

A very  _ very _ dead pilot. You don’t go on living when you have your internal organs torn out like that.

_ Shit.  _ I was on full Panic Mode now.  _ Shit shit shit shit fuck shit shit…..  _

My heart was going a mile a minute now, and my internal cussing was enough to fill a Navy’s quota for a year, but I still somehow had enough resolve to analyze the corpse.

All the vital organs—the heart, the liver, the stomach, you name it—were either missing, or shredded. Blood smeared the controls, and the pilot’s head was slumped against the remains of his chest.

What struck me as odd was the  _ clawed  _ nature of the body. Not bites, but swipes…

I realized, with fascinated horror, that they were almost catlike in nature.

What kind of… thing would do _this_? It couldn’t be any kind of animal… could it? It certainly wasn’t a zombie, if anything. What kind of zombie would claw a person open with cruel efficiency, and abandon the scene of the crime?

My nerves getting the better of me, I ducked out of the compartment, leaving the body where it was, staring out of the blood-stained window that had once showed the sky.

* * *

I leaned against the now-shut compartment door, trying not to hyperventilate. I was in a cold sweat, and my gun hand shook badly as I attempted not to panic.

Through my thoughts of fear and terror and  _ fuck,  _ one thing burned clear, through the rest of them:

_ Whatever did that is still around here. _

This was quickly followed by another, screaming in my head over all the others.

_ Get home. NOW.  _

* * *

_ _ New place.

Not like old place. New smells here. New feel. Old place had different smells. Smell of burn. Smell of sick. Smell of prey.

New place smells like dirt. More green and brown things here. Old place was black and grey. Hard under feet. New place is less hard.

No prey here. Old smell of prey on my claws, but that was too long ago. Need new prey.

Smells of small things. Not hungry for small things. 

Smell ground. New ground smells. Funny smells.

<strike> Doesn’t smell like the city  </strike>

Make tall brown things. Different than tall things in Other Place. Tall things in Other Place were much taller. Tall things here are less tall. Not gray. Smell different. More here, too.

Climb tall thing. Smell better up there. Use claws, dig into tall thing. Higher up here.

Sniff.

Smell little bit of burn, far off. Smell little squeaky things. Not-prey.

Wait.

Sniff again. 

Smell something.

Smell… prey! Scared. Not running, but ready to run. Moving. Coming closer.

Jump from tall thing. Roll. Come closer to the smell of prey. 

Mine.

* * *

I walked as quickly as I could without making noise, my gun out and my knuckles white from gripping it. My whole body was screaming at me to run, but I paced myself. I wasn’t being chased, after all.

Yet.

I didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention, anyways, with my blundering and crashing through the woods. Besides, whatever had gotten to the pilot might be the kind of thing to chase you if you ran.

Still, I was on edge.

Every sound made me jump, or flinch. Every whistle of the wind was a moan, or a growl, and every birdcall was a scream.

Something snapped to the left of me.

I turned, emptying an entire clip into the nearing moving thing I could see, without any hesitation.

When the  _ click click _ of my trigger hitting an empty chamber brought me out of my panic-and-adrenaline induced trance, I took a moment to look at what I was actually shooting. 

It was a squirrel. 

A dead squirrel, as expired as my good friend the pilot back there; six bullets in the body will do that to you. 

The adrenaline drained, and I breathed a small sigh of relief, as I silently scolded myself for panicking so easily, and wasting an entire clip on a stupid rodent.

_ Pull yourself together, Marcy.  _ I thought as I reached for a new magazine. I wondered if Dad was watching me, laughing his ass off at me, going nuts over a dumb squirrel.

It was only then that I heard the growl behind me.


	3. Tooth and Claw

Prey is close. Veryveryvery close. Drool. Little growl.

Want to pounce. Wait. Sooo close. But don’t jump now. Not close enough.

Right under tall thing I’m in now. Move on tall thing. Better spot for pouncing. Cracking sound as I move.

Prey stop. Takes out thing. Very fast.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Smell of smoke.

Smelled this smoke before. Smoke that means hurt. Bad smoke. Veryvery bad smoke. Can kill me with smoke-thing. Stay away from smoke-thing.

Smoke smell stops now. Doing something with smoke-thing now.

<strike> ‘Reloading! Cover me!’ </strike>

Jump now.

Growl. Scare. Better hunt when scared. Pounce.

* * *

_ Too late. _

The zombie came seemingly out of nowhere, screaming bloody murder. I only had time to cuss and react, as the dark blue blob launched itself towards me.

I raised my left arm to block, instinctively, and it crashed into me. The sonuvabitch knocked me to the ground, its teeth clamping onto my arm, biting through my (Regrettably) thin sweater, and the pain started to sink through to the bone.

I was scared shitless.

I was also angry as hell.

My attacker scrabbled, its teeth still latched onto my left arm, the only thing keeping me from the same fate as the pilot.

My pistol was unloaded, still gripped in my right hand, all but useless in conventional ways. My arm hurt like a bitch, and I was playing a twisted game of arm/tooth wrestling with a zombie, with no-one to help me. So I did what any sensible girl would do in the situation: 

I clubbed it to death with my gun.

Pulling my right arm out, I swung the butt of the Glock in a high arc, landing it with a satisfying  _ crack  _ on the zombie’s head. Asshole didn’t know what was coming to him; It gave a surprised screech, until I shut it up with a second conk to the skull, falling limp, with its teeth still clinging to my now-bloody arm.

I shook it off, kicking the body away and clutching my bleeding arm as I got up, and  _ ran. _

* * *

It was only after I burst into The Cabin, slammed and bolted the door, and sat down against it that I finally unclenched my teeth. The adrenaline in my system slowly drained, and my hands stopped shaking, leaving me feeling tired and wrung-out. The bite on my arm had stopped bleeding, and had clotted; The shredded remains of my sweater sleeve stuck to the dried blood.

_ How long does it take to turn? _ I thought, as the hot fog of panic cleared away from my head. 

_ Will I slowly start craving for flesh, or will I keel over and reanimate? _

Then I snapped, a little bit.

“Marzia Adelaide Walker.” I said, clenching my fists, again. “You are the worst survivalist to ever walk this godforsaken Earth. You went out there, alone, with only a handgun, and panicked like a middle-schooler at the first sign of trouble. You reloaded without even a spot-check, and you should be ashamed of yourself. If you turn into a zombie, you damn well deserve it. In the meantime, get your act together and move your ass.”

I was right, of course. If Dad saw what had happened back there, he’d probably hit me on the head with a 2x4 for being so damn idiotic. I reflected on this as I washed out the bite with vicious antimicrobial soap and bandaged it, the familiar motions of dressing all but muscle memory to me, as I got my thoughts in a line.

I was bitten by a person (Now dead and rotting in the woods. Great.) infected with a virus I knew next-to-nothing about, other than what I knew from the scattered CEDA reports on the radio. I had no medical supplies that were more advanced than morphine syringes, and the closest hospital was at least 50 miles away (And I doubted they’d be able to help me, in any case.) At this point, it seemed less like a question of what to do, and more about what my last meal would be. 

(It was Ibuprofen, by the way. Zombies bites hurt. A lot.)

* * *

The Cabin, while fairly small, had enough room for a couch, in front of the woodstove. Though, like The Cabin, it was not an ordinary, lowercase couch. It was a couch with a flower-based design so horrendous it would send the tackiest of grandmothers into seizures. My multiple childhood attempts to burn it, tear it, and otherwise mutilate it were in vain; Like everything else in The Cabin, it could probably survive a nuclear bomb, and stayed in the same place for 12 years. I learned to tolerate it, eventually. A couch was a couch, after all, no matter how Hideous or Floral it could be.

As I sat down on the aforementioned Hideous Floral Couch, my head abuzz with thoughts and my arm abuzz with pain, I realized I was sitting on my (Now half-shredded) sweater, which I had discarded before washing my arm. I tugged it from underneath me, and something fell to the floor with a papery  _ thud _ .

Oh. I nearly forgot about the purloined file folder. Might as well take a look at it now; It was in better lighting, and I couldn’t do much until the painkillers kicked in (Or until I became zombified. Whichever came first.)

There was an official looking stamp on the front, and  CEDA: CLASSIFIED REPORT COMPILATION was lettered underneath it. I tugged the staples holding the folder closed out with my nails, and opened it, reading the first paper in the file.

* * *

CEDA FILE REPORT GF-21097

CIVILIAN DISTRIBUTION

Green Flu:

A highly contagious mutated form of rabies, communicable by bite, aerosol, and bodily fluids. Initial symptoms include dizziness, fever, aching, and chills; later stages include vomiting, hallucinations, and dementia, degrading into animalistic, aggressive behavior, with the instinct to attack all non-infected. Incubation time varies from individual to individual, but typically is around the time of 1 hour.

Avoid all contact with infected individuals; if you suspect you are infected, quarantine yourself and contact the nearest CEDA facility. While a vaccine is not yet available, all available resources are being dedicated to research for a cure. 

The virus is 99% communicable,(Though not reportedly transferable to other mammals) with some individuals possessing resistance to the disease. However, contact with these individuals is discouraged, as they are able to spread the disease without displaying any outward symptoms. (CEDA Officials are to consult REPORT TM-17ll for further instructions regarding Carriers)

* * *

I stopped reading, putting down the report. Carriers, eh? So I had a 99% chance of mutating into a vomiting, rage-filled zombie (Like my friend in the woods, Mr. Bitey) or being forever condemned as a host to the disease, forced to lived separate from my fellow humans, until a vaccine is invented.

Actually, the latter didn’t sound half-bad. This was going to be an awfully fun hour.

* * *

Head hurts. 

Many things hurt. Stupid prey hurt me, and ran away. Can still taste blood in mouth. Feel hot, stomach making funny noises.

Stupid prey.

Shake. Little black things flying around when I get up. Feel heavy. Shake head. 

Prey is gone now, but scent is still fresh. Blood-smell on the ground, in a trail. 

Hunt.

<strike> Stop  </strike>

Head feels funny now. Hear noises sometimes. Quiet noises. Now the noises are louder.

<strike> Human </strike>

?

Shake head again. Growl at noises. Don’t smell anything making the noises. Keep following blood-trail. Still hurt, but want to hunt too much to care.

Pass by tall thing  <strike>tree</strike>

Stop. Tall-thing….a tree?

Sniff tree. Smells the same. Why does head say it is different?

Head is saying very funny things.

* * *

My head hurt.

I began to panic again.  _ Oh, god. _ I thought.  _ Surely this is the first step of my viral transformation into a mindless creature of instinct and unbridled rage, and I will only continue to degrade as my mental capacity slowly drains away.  _

_ Or,  _ I countered,  _ it could be just another headache. _

I took another Ibuprofen and left it at that.

I had good reason to have a headache, anyways. The zombie situation wasn’t going well. At all.

For one thing, I don’t think I would have to worry about the plants in the apartment anymore. I looked at the map that came after the Green Flu report in the file; the crimson-colored spread of the virus spilled past Pennsylvania, and crept up to Maine, not quite reaching the northern part, and was also slinking south, towards Virginia. My home city, of course, had been swallowed; the only solace I could take from that was the fact my boss was probably either dead, or a zombie. 

It wasn’t much of a consolation prize.

As I stared up at the ceiling, I felt a shocking lack of response. Call it dead-mode again, but I didn’t have much to tie me to my old town, or anything, really. I’d taken a semester off from college to work, and it wasn’t like I had any bonds to my fellow classmates or professors. I didn’t talk much with the people at work, and the most interaction I had with the people at my apartment was to occasionally discuss the weather. There wasn’t much to care about, so I didn’t.

Guess I was alone. Again.

* * *

Sniff ground.

Head still feels funny. Ignore head. Keep tracking prey.

Feeling veryvery warm now. Water coming off of head.

<strike> Sweat </strike>

What is head saying?

<strike> Thinking </strike>

I am thinking.

<strike> My thoughts were so loud I couldn’t hear my mouth </strike>

Turn head. Hear something. Nothing there.

Wait…

Sounds are in head.

<strike> Music </strike>

<strike> There is  _ music _ in my head… </strike>

Feel very confused now. Head keeps  _ thinking _ new words…

<strike> Remember </strike>

_ I am remembering. _


	4. Say My Name

There wasn’t much in the files after the maps; Just quarantine and evacuation protocol. There were a few disturbing-looking pictures of infected cities; Zombies running around the streets, chaos reigning. I reflected at (Despite the MRE’s) how freaking comfortable I was riding out the apocalypse. Even the pain from bite on my arm had reduced to a dull throb (Probably due to the pain meds) and there weren’t any green, tainted-looking veins creeping up from it, towards my heart or whatever. I went to bed that night with the general confidence that I would not, in fact, become a zombie.

Probably.

It’s not like I’d have to deal with one, anyways. One zombie falling from the sky is one zombie too much for me.

* * *

Hot. Feel hot. 

Hot everywhere. Not following trail any more. Too far. Too much hurt.  Stop the <strike>pain</strike> black things flying around. Growl at the black things, but they just keep flying around. Eveyrthing going dark now.

Can’t see. Keep head low. Stumble. Can’t walk. Just feel hot. Mouth stings. Eyes hurt. Feel weak.

Head is full of noise.

<strike> Where am I  </strike>

Want to lie down, but I keep crawling. Don’t know why. 

Run into thing now. Not tree. Sharp. Prickly.

Scratches me. Smell blood  my blood.  Won’t let go.

Try to pull away. Veryvery tired. Head now very noisy. Prickly-thing keeps biting me, through my covering  <strike> sweater  </strike> and on face. Pull away again, but it won’t let me go. Trapped tighter.

Try to growl, but feel too tired.

<strike> Sick </strike>

Lie still.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to the sun shining, the birds singing, and a zombie in the barbed wire fence.

_ Crap. _

I was into my cargo pants, boots and jacket within seconds, and my Glock was locked and loaded, as I cautiously observed the body from the safety of the threshold. It was unmoving, but I didn’t want to take any chances. 

_ Idiot,  _ I thought, as I slowly approached it, cautious in my step, watching the zombie the entire short walk from the Cabin to the fence _ . You didn’t double-tap it.  _

It surprised me that a zombie survived something like that, but then again, I had been pretty hasty in my retreat. Too hasty, in fact. Anyone with some common sense would have shot it in the head, for good measure, but I (In all my ill-intentioned panic) had neglected to do so.  _ Might as well finish the job now _ , I thought grimly.

It looked like it was finished, anyways. The body seemed to, well, a body, dead as a…

Ok, it groaned just now. Yep, it was breathing. Tangled deep in the wire, I could actually get a good look at the thing that tried to kill me not 24 hours before. 

Its head was down, and the wire cut deeply into the flesh and fabric of the grimy hoodie it was wearing, which also served to cover its face. For some reason, the sleeves were taped down with duct tape, as were the pant legs.  _ Probably remnants of its past life,  _ I realized 

Despite the fact it had tried to eat me earlier, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry.

Here was some hapless sod, going about his normal life, only to get turned into a mindless animal by a particle of protein and RNA less than .001% the size of a bacterium.

And now here he is, trapped in a goddamn barbed wire fence in the middle of nowhere.

_ Poor bugger, _ I thought.

“Well, the most I can do for you is put you out of your misery.” I said, flicking off the safety of my pistol and aiming for the head.

At the sound of my voice, the Infected moved, slightly, trying to lift its head. I stiffened, ready to shoot if there were any sudden movements.

Then there was another sound.

“Plz,” It said.

I inhaled, sharply. “What did you say?” I asked, shocked. My hands were shaking again; Obviously, I was becoming delusional due to stress, cabin-fever, and possibly a zombie virus infecting me.

“Plz,” said the zombie again, actually lifting its head enough to look up at me. Its voice was rough, and forced, like it took all of its energy just to speak.

“Help me.”

* * *

Something coming. Can’t hear much, because head is making pounding sounds and feelings…

Prey?

No. Not prey. Can’t move. Can’t pounce. Can’t hunt.

Stay still. Maybe will go away. Smell is closer now. Smells… scared. And also…

<strike> Sad </strike>

Makes sound. Don’t know what. Sound of smoke-thing now. Heard before. Means pain. Means..

<strike> Death  </strike>

Head is saying something now. Words. Don’t know words. Mean something.

<strike> Help me. </strike>

Open mouth. Not growl, or scream. Say words. Maybe will do something.

“Plz.”

Smell is…confused now. Say words again. Big words. Means...

<strike> Safety </strike>

Means so much…

“Help me.”


	5. Survival Value

Ah, crap, it  _ talks _ now.

_ He _ , part of my head corrected me.

_ No,  _ I thought back.  _ It _ _ is a zombie, and if you call it a he, then you will get all mushy and attached, and you’ll try to save it, and your cabin fever-induced delusions of an intelligent infected will result in you getting your guts eaten out, like our good friend Mr. Pilot back there. _

_ Who says they’re delusions?  _ I countered.

As the internal debate raged on, I noticed that the zombie had (Seemed to have, at least) fallen unconscious, his body slumped and trapped in the wire. It looked a hella lot more helpless than when it had tried to kill me, earlier; In fact, it almost looked pitiful.

Almost.

* * *

The rules of survival say to put yourself first. No deer is too cute, no bug is too gross, and no task is too difficult, messy, or unnerving to get in the way of your chances to live. There is no mercy given to you in the world, so why offer any back?

I asked myself, as I stood there on that cold Maine autumn morning, a zombie stuck in the fence, that may or may not have just spoken, and my pistol aimed for home.

So why wasn’t I shooting?

Any sensible person would have, speaking or no. But for some reason, my finger wouldn’t pull the trigger, and though the cold part of me was telling me to get it over and done with, to shoot and burn the body and get on with my life, there was a slanderous little voice in my head that asked me, through all my tumult.

_ If you shoot him, are you any better than him? _

Would I be any better than an animal, fighting for survival, based on pure, raw instinct? Any more than a zombie, killing for the sake of killing, not seeing anything human in its prey?

Or was I just in it to survive?

I reached a decision.

* * *

_ You are going to regret this. Big time. _

I carefully clipped the wire fencing around the zombie’s sweater, the wire cutters biting into the metals and slicing through.

_ You are breaking every single rule of common sense, rational thought, survival, and basic function there is. _

_ He asked me for help. _ I argued, the cold part of by brain not relenting.  _ What was I going to do, leave him to die? _

_ No, you expedite the process.  _ It countered.

_ Shuddup, the both of you.  _ I silently yelled, my collective sides giving me a headache from their arguing.  _ What’s done is done. _

It was slightly better after that.

I finished cutting, pulling the barbs away from the infected, with gloved hands. Grabbing his arm, I started to haul of out of the wire, wincing at the tearing sounds the hoodie made is it was pulled through. After some delicate tugging, additional cutting, and untangling, I managed to get him free. He lay on the ground near the fence, still unconscious, but breathing.

Grunting, I lifted him up in a fireman’s carry. He didn’t look like his spine was injured, so I reckoned it was safe. 

The body was surprisingly light; I could lift him easily. Rising, I carried him over to The Cabin.

Well, no going back now.

* * *

While I may have had a temporary onslaught of soft-heartedness in rescuing the zombie, I was (In no way) stupid. (Well, not entirely.)

Which is why said zombie was now tied to Dad’s old bed. (Sorry, Dad, but it’s not like you were using it.)

This embarrassed me, as sensible as it was; I felt like a mix between a Saxton Hale villain and someone in an X-rated porno film.

Maybe it isn’t such a great an idea to think about it.

The zombie was still out of it, breathing peacefully as tested the ropes. Satisfied with their security, I rolled up my sleeves, pulled on some gloves, and got down to business.

* * *

Y’know the combat medical course I mentioned earlier? The one where you learn to hack off limbs with a bone saw, or perform a blood transfusion in the dark in the mud with men dying all around you? It isn’t a class for the fainthearted. We had half of the people who signed up for it drop out in the first week alone. I lasted through it, mainly because Dad made me, and he would never have spoken to me if I’d dropped out. Also, I’m not really squeamish. (Learning how to gut fish and skin deer since the age of 7 does that for you.) 

Even so, this job was a nightmare. 

After I cut off the sweater (And the duct tape holding it down) the first thing I noticed was the infected’s face. Specifically, his eyes.

The area around them was a mass of shredded tissue; Covered in a blood and grime and god-knows-what. The eyelids, while less mauled, had several slashes through them, and were encrusted with dried blood. 

_ It’s like he tried to claw his own eyes out.  _ I realized. Then I looked at the whole mess again; The angles of the slashes, and lines of the cuts.  _ Scratch that, he  _ _ did _ _ try to claw his own eyes out. _

What kind of fucked-up virus would do  that —Make people try to gouge their own eyes from their sockets? 

Fearing what I might see, I lifted one of the eyelid, expecting a scratched cornea, at the very least, if not a mass of bloody, tattered—

Or a perfectly whole, (If unseeing) untouched white orb underneath.

No way could it have healed that fast.

Hell, it wasn’t  _ scarred,  _ for gods’ sake.

I snapped the eyelid back, glancing at his hands. I’d noticed they’d looked odd as I was tying them down; They were bonier than the average human hand, and had some blood on them, but I hadn’t has much time to look.

Now I did.

It was like they were claws, tipped with rust-red dried blood; (Whether it was his own or someone else’s, I couldn’t tell) Upon close examination, it looked like they were made of some hard substance, like bone, or nail…

Whatever the hell the virus did, no  _ way _ could it have come out of nature.

It took me a moment for me to re-gather my composure. You’d prolly have to do the same thing, if you were me. In the meantime, I took a good look at the zombie itself, and not just the fucked-up bits.

For one thing, he seemed fairly young; Maybe early-mid-twenties, though the messed up eyes made it hard to tell. He had short-ish brown hair, which struck me as odd; Either he hadn’t been infected that long, or the virus messed with his system enough so that his hair didn’t grow at a normal pace. Either way, it wasn’t as overgrown as I expected it to be; the only obvious hair growth was the 5-o’-clock shadow on the parts of his face that weren’t clawed apart, either his claws, or the barbed wire.

I’ll tell you this: Barbed wire is nasty shit. You don’t go messing with it (It’s pretty much the point) for very good reasons. Case in point: Our friend the zombie.

What hadn’t been snagged on the sweater had torn through the arms, hands, and a bit on the legs, all bleeding a good amount on the towels draped over the bed. However, his face was unscathed (Well, by the wire anyways) and the wounds seemed superficial, at most; Not enough to pass out from blood loss. If anything, he conked out because of the pain.

Well, and because I knocked him over the head with a Glock 17 Gen4 butt. I most likely gave him a good concussion, at the very least. They never show that in the movies; When you knock someone out, often, the damage from hit makes them keel over again soon after they wake up.

Which is exactly what happened here.

Probably.

_ Unless he’s playing you for an easy kill, _ my thoughts whispered, once again, deviously to me.

_ Shut up. _ I thought.  _ I took all the necessary precautions, and if he tries anything, he’s getting a bullet to the skull; and I hope it doesn’t come to that, because it would stain the sheets. _

_ Well, the sheets are already pretty stained, what with him bleedin’ all over the place. _ I argued back. Damn, my headache was coming back with a vengeance, with all this internal arguing going on.

No time for that, anyways. I had a long job ahead of me.

* * *

I will, again, spare you the arduous task that faced me at that moment; all I will divulge is that it took me half a bottle of povidone iodine, 8 pairs of gloves, several hours, and more nerves than I possess.

I noticed several things while getting through all of this. Firstly, his body temp was high. Not incredibly high; Just hovering around feverish. Guess it was an effect of the virus; Immune system fighting it, and all.

The second thing was his sweater. I had to tear away the rest of it, in order to get to the rest of him; it was dark-blue under all the grime and crap caked on it (Which, quite frankly, I’d prefer not to think about) I only noticed then there was a logo on the left side, over the breast, faded and tattered under the dirt.  _ Denver _ , I read, with a little logo of some mountains under it.  _ Must like Colorado, _ I thought, though it didn’t tell me much more about him. As far as I knew, the Infection hadn’t hit the Rockies yet, so it couldn’t have been his home-town. Hell, it could be something he bought from a thrift store.

There was a bite mark on his shoulder. It was half-healed, and there weren’t any tears in the sweater where the bite was, so he must have been bitten, put on the sweater, and turned.

It made my stomach churn again; to think about the human life he had once left.

The one he had left behind.

I pushed these thoughts aside, as I finished my wrapping. Though it wasn’t the most sterile of environments, and not the most medically professional of jobs, it would be enough to hold him together. Probably.

And then my little internal monologue was interrupted by a sound.

It was at this point that I realized that my patient was waking up. Like a good doctor, I made sure that the ropes weren’t too tight, or constrictive.

Then, unlike a good doctor, I drew back, unholstered the Glock, and waited.

He stirred, opening his eyes muzzily, and letting out a little groan against the light of the sun through the windows. He squinted, and started, well,  _ snorting,  _ (For lack of a better word) taking little whiffs of air in and out through his nose…

_ Like he’s sniffing the room…  _ If zombies could smell, in any case. Could they?

Then he whipped his head to the side, and he looked straight at me, his eyes wild. He seemed to tense under his bonds.

My move.

“Hello.” I said, cautiously, never taking my gaze (or aim) off of him. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

The blank stare he gave me wasn’t very reassuring.  _ At least he isn’t trying to break free and tear your guts out,  _ I reasoned. I tried again.

“What’s your name?”

Another blank stare. Damn. I was hoping to get somewhere with that; Infected or no, it think it would be a bit demeaning to keep calling him ‘zombie’. 

I sighed. “Look, can’t you even remember what you used to be called? Er, Harry? Alex? Steve? Jacob?” I rattled off names, but each was met with the same blank, neutral stare; I was getting nowhere.

“Evan? Zach?” I thought back to the sweater. “Denver?” I asked, thinking it would be a good a guess as any.

The reaction was immediate; his eyes widened, and he stiffened, breathing speeding up; all the time, he never took his eyes off of me. Slowly, he nodded.

I nodded, sharply, in return, trying to hide my shock. Clearly, there was  _ someone  _ in there. The question was, who?

At least I had a label for him, now.

“Denver it is, then.”


	6. In Wake

Strange smells. Many smells, all strange, from all over. Hurt. Everything hurts. Feel hot…and cold. Cold  <strike> on skin </strike> . Bright light. Veerrrrry bright light. Eyes hurt from light.

Open eyes, little bit. Close them. Veryvery bright. Wait. One familiar smell.

<strike> Prey </strike> her.

Open eyes all the way.

Try to move. Can’t. Trapped again? Try to move. Smell some more; Not the same place, but still can’t pounce…

Can move head. Turn head. Head feels funny, but I move it.

She is standing away from me.

Holding smoke thing  gun

Hold still. Watch. Smell.

Make sound.

“-----“

Don’t know what sound is. Heard other noises like it, but don’t pay attention.  <strike> Means something </strike> Don’t know what.

Keep watching.

“--- --- ---------- ---- -- -----?”

Funny noises. Familiar…  _ Remember _ them? Head hurts now, trying to remember…

“----- ---- -- ----- --------….” More noises. Still can’t tell. Sounds tired, smells a little scared…

“Denver?”

Wait. Big noise. Important noise. Means something…

<strike> Name </strike>

My name…

<strike> ‘D-----, are you coming?’ </strike>

My name is Denver.

* * *

For a zombie that had come very close to eviscerating me in the messiest way possible, Denver was oddly placid. I had some bandaging work to do on his shoulder, and he sat patiently while I did so (Albeit, after making sure he wouldn’t lunge at me through the ropes) Hell, he didn’t even growl; though whether he was more human than I expected, or if was just biding his time, I wasn’t sure.

He never took his eyes off of me for the entire time, though.

I, for my part, was surprised at how I was taking this in stride; I guess it was dead-mode again, except, instead of killing zombies, I was rescuing one. Which makes you wonder what the world was coming to, what with me caring for zombies and all. Hell, it was like one of that smarmy animal-rescue movie, cept’ instead of, I dunno, a bear or whatever, it was a fellow human being.

I decided not to dwell on that too much.

“All right, I think you’re all patched up here,” I said, quietly, so as not to startle him, snapping a butterfly clip onto the bandage. All of his cuts were cleaned out, and, for the most part, covered; The eyes were considerably-better looking, but deep, scarred gashes on the sides and cheeks were pretty damn disconcerting. 

The zombie- _ Denver _ , corrected myself- didn’t respond, simply watching as I packed up the kit. I checked his fever again; It was still burning, though it seemed to have lowered a bit.  _ Feed a cold, starve a fever;  _ The old adage played in my head, despite the fact it was very medically incorrect. Which brought to mind: What (And, more importantly,  how ) exactly would I feed him?

Maybe I should have thought this through more.

* * *

Don’t move. Just watch.

Doing something to arm. Wrapping thing. Feels tight, but don’t make sounds. Don’t want her to use gun, or run away.

Just lay still.

Light is still bright. Too bright. Keep eyes open, though. Keep watching her.

Can smell place clearer now. Smells of gun-smoke, and regular smoke, and chemicals, and blood.

My blood.  <strike> Prey. </strike>

Thing in head says to pounce. Run, tear,  kill

Then bigger thing in head says no, you do not.

<strike> You are human. </strike>

No hunting.

So I wait.

* * *

I was beginning to have doubts. I mean, was what I was about the stupidest thing I had done all day (And, possibly, my life) or the second-stupidest?

Eh, only one way to find out.

I took out the Glock again. “Some ground rules,” I said. (I didn’t know if he could understand, but you don’t know if you don’t try.)

“You try anything, I shoot. Got it?”

He nodded. Well, I think he nodded. It could have been delusional; How could I know? I was too far over the edge to tell.

I plowed on.

“Secondly,” I said, narrowing my eyes for effect, “If it weren’t for me, you would currently be rotting in the barbed wire out there,” I gestured with my head. “So no funny business. Understand?” 

Another possibly-delusional-nod. Well, at least my imagination was being consistent; gotta give it points for that, y’know?

Might as well get down to business.

It didn’t take me long to cut through the first set of ropes; My hands were shaking as I did so, though you couldn’t tell, what with the knife sawing and all. I was ready to spring back and shoot if needed, in any case.

He stayed still for the entire time, even after his top half was free, and I was working on the legs. He just watched me (Albeit, in a pretty damn creepy way) as I sliced away; For a zombie, he was pretty damn patient. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he wasn’t trying to eat me (Yet) so I might as well count my blessings.

As the last bit of rope fell away from his ankles, I jumped back, ready to react to any moves Denver made, in case with his newfound freedom he would become volatile. I didn’t take the gun out, But I kept my hand on the holster all the same.

Now for the moment of truth.

He didn’t do anything.

Ok, this was kind of weird. 

‘Ok, Denver,” I said, quietly, ready for any sudden movements. “You’re free now. Go on.”

He kept staying still for a moment, but then he moved. I tensed, but he didn’t make any motions to pounce. Instead, he rose, slowly, like Frankenstein, (Which is oddly appropriate in any case) sans the whole hand-up-in-front thing. Instead, he just kind of rolled of the bed, this time more like a lazy teenager than an undead monster (Though frankly, I can’t tell the difference.)

Then, unlike anything I’d ever seen before, he dropped down on all-fours, with his hands and feet.

_ Okaaay. The weird factor has certainly increased by tenfold. _

He walked (Stalked? I don’t know anymore) over to me. I stiffened, backing up in alarm as my hand gripped my still-holstered gun. He was right in front of me now.

But all he did was sniff my boots in a vague sort of manner, and turn a shark left, leaving the room through the open door, and entering the main part of the room.

_ Right.  _ I thought uneasily.  _ That was even weirder. _

I followed his path through the door, my gun ready in case of an ambush.

Instead, he was in front of the fireplace, curled up like a cat, his face buried in his arms, and seemingly asleep.

_ Awesome. _ I decided.  _ This is now entirely fucking weird.  _


	7. Little Talks

It is the zombie apocalypse. Civilization along the East Coast has crumbled, fallen to mindless infected that now roam the streets, with the remaining government either in disarray, possibly anarchy. Thousands of people die by the day, and life as we know it has ended.

And here I am, engaging in a staring contest with something that tried to eat me not 48 hours ago.

“Knock it off,” I said, breaking the silence. “Look, I can’t read minds, so if you want something, you gotta communicate it to me.”

He kept staring at me. I sighed; zombie or no, this was getting pretty old, pretty damn quickly.

“Are you…” I thought, wildly. “Hungry?” I gestured towards my mouth.

Aaaaaaaand we were back to Square One, Blank Stare. Damn. (Well, I was kind of dreading the answer, so it was just as well.)

“C’mon, man, you were talking before!” I said, exasperated. I mean, why was he clamming up all of a sudden? Unless, of course, I HAD been hallucinating back there…

Then he got up from his spot in front of the fire, and stretched, like, oh god, a cat…

He was watching me now. I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with him.

“Umm…” Where do I start?

“My name is Marzia,” I said. Might as well begin with introductions, even if I already knew his name.

“You can call me Marcy.”

Marzia was the one my mother picked, anyways, after my Finnish grandmother (Whom I had never even met) Dad said it was Uncle Whit that started calling me Marcy; After that, it was only the occasional schoolteacher, and Dad (only when he was mad) that called me by my given name. 

“Mar,” He said.

Ok, so he  _ could _ talk. His voice was less sandpapery than before, but it still sounded like he wasn’t used to speaking.

“Mar-see,” I said back. 

“Mar.”

“Mar-see,” I said, slower this time.

“Mar.”

“Fine, you win,” I said, throwing up my hands. Hell, it was a miracle enough that he could get  _ one  _ syllable out; Might as well take baby steps.

“And you’re Denver, right?”

“Den,” He said. 

“Right. Denver,” Yep, looks like he was still on the monosyllabic stage of life.

“Can you remember anything? At all?”

A headshake, Well, at least he seemed to have non-verbal communication down.

“Nothing? Your full name, your hometown…”

Another headshake. Damn, I should’ve thought better; He couldn’t even remember his own name. How could I expect him to remember anything else?

Well, might as well start with the most recent bits, and work my way back. “Can you remember how you got here? What happened to you?”

He actually look thoughtful, now. “’Member,” He managed, concentrating on his speech. “Pain. Hurt.”

Ah, hell. “Anything else?”

“Big noises. Smells. Chase.”

How incredibly specific and helpful. 

While I was mulling over this, he up and started for Dad’s old room, emerging a minute later with the old sweater clenched in his teeth. He sat in front of me, with a hopeful look in his eyes.

I shook my head. “Dude, that thing is covered in dirt, grime, blood, and god-knows-what-else. Hell, I had to cut it off you! You can’t wear that anymore!”

He didn’t reply, and just gave me that hopeful look again. I replied with a glare of my own, and we were back into stare-down mode again.

A several minutes of prolonged silence, (And my eyes starting to water) I gave up.

“Fine.” I said, throwing up my arms. “I’ll see if I have anything in the back.”

He brightened when he heard this, and followed me into my own room. I dug through my clothes dresser, pushing aside T-shirts, socks, and miscellaneous hand weaponry until I found what I was looking for.

I held the hoodie up to check for size.

“It’s a bit big on me, so it should fit you,” I said. “It’ll probably be more comfortable on you anyways.”

Granted, it smelled like mothballs, and, also granted, it had  _ SkullKrushers Boot Camp for Adolescent Survivalists _ emblazoned on the back, but I reckoned he couldn’t tell the difference. I didn’t like the camp that much, either; it’d been too soft for me, in any case.

Denver came over, sniffing the hoodie experimentally. He gave me a quizzical look. (Maybe it was the mothballs.)

I returned it with a look of my own. “Take it or leave it. It’s this, or a T-shirt.”

Hearing this, he sat back, an expectant look on his face.

“Hands up.” I commanded.

He complied.  _ Looks like his vocab is improving  _ I thought, bemusedly.

I pulled the sweater over his arms, the hood catching over his head, obscuring his eyes (And much of his scars) and giving him a look similar to the one he had before.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork. He was in a clean sweater, at least; The rest of him, I wasn’t sure how to navigate.

Denver seemed happy, though. He shook a bit, and padded back to the living room. I followed suit, finding him curled up, once again, in front of the fireplace.

* * *

Since most of my day had gone straight to hell (Read: Rescuing random zombies from barbed wire fences) I decided to cut straight to the chase and start wrapping up for the day. It was getting dark, anyways; Maine nights came pretty early, when you start hitting the fall and winter months. This of course, meant I had to get all the chores done, the water fetched, and the fire stoked; Zombies or no, I couldn’t let the whole place fall apart.

The whole time, Denver just napped in front of the fireplace. I approached this with caution, and never took my eyes off of him; But, nope, he seemed content to not try and pounce on me and eat my guts out.

This was the, what, the  _ third _ zombie I’ve ever seen, but, by God, it was the damn weirdest zombie I’ve ever laid eyes on. Well, if you could still call him a zombie; I wasn’t sure if he met the criteria anymore. 

When darkness had truly fallen, and everything was done, I sat down on the Hideous Floral Couch, and logged the day’s events. Dad made me do this as a way to keep track of time; Apparently, if you don’t write  _ Did inventory _ and  _ Dug out new outhouse  _ at the end of every day, then you start going nuts.

The only question now was how to start, without making it look like I  _ had _ gone nuts. _ _

I chewed the end of my pencil, and wrote, decisively,

_ Oct. 9. Expended following items: Iodine (1/2 bttle), gloves (Latex-free, 8) _

A flash of movement interrupted my thought process, and my writing. I glanced up to see Denver watching my endeavors from by the fireplace, his gaze contemplative.

“What’re you looking at?”

But then he went back to his curled up position. I shrugged; probably the pencil scratching that woke him up. I continued on.

_ Gauze (1 pck), suture (1 spool) _

There was a soft  _ thump  _ next to me, and I looked to my left to see he had jumped on the couch, gazing over my shoulder at the log.

The Glock was out in a moment; If I had been thinking, I would have waited a moment, but now my thoughts were running on raw fear, and I did it instinctively.

The infected screeched, scrambling off the couch at the sight of the gun. In his haste, he fell off and hit the coffee table with a large THWACK.

I suppressed a laugh, my too shaken to think about anything else. “Dude, I said no funny business,” I said, putting my gun away as he rubbed his (now sore) head. The screech had been damn creepy, but now he seemed to be a bit less agile than I thought. “You OK?” I asked, surprised by my concern.

He shook himself, and shot me what I imagined was a dirty look from under the hood. I snorted; I didn’t think that zombies could have wounded pride, but there you go. He seemed alright in any case.

“Don’t startle me like that, k?” I said, once he had recollected himself. “Last time you did that, you tried to eat my guts. Next time, I might not hesitate to shoot.” 

He gave me another dirty look. Surprising how a person, while they don’t even know how to speak, can still know how to give look that could kill.

“Don’t take it personally. You wouldn’t be the first zombie I killed, anyways.”

He humphed, returning to his spot by the fire. I felt a bit bad for pulling the gun, but what’s a survivalist to do? 

“What were you looking at anyways?” I asked, intrigued.

He didn’t answer, but just kept staring at me. Or, rather, near me.

I picked up the log. “What, this?” I asked, and his gaze followed the movement of the notebook. I looked at the log itself; It didn’t seem to have changed in a way that would capture the interest of a zombie.

“It’s just the records-book. Nothing interesting in here,” I said.  _ Well, not until fairly recently _ . I thought to myself. He kept staring at it though, so, out of curiosity, I cracked it to the middle and read a passage at random. “Oct. 8, inventory finished, checked traps…” 

I stopped. Denver had sat straight up, and was listening with rapt attention, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He seemed less attentive now that I had stopped, but still had an air of expectancy about him.

I glanced at the logbook again, and turned to a different page. “Oct. 3, chased badger from outhouse  _ again _ …”

And, again, the rapt attention. God, it was creepy to watch; I haven’t seen anyone so excited to be read to since, what, 1 st grade? Not anyone over the age of 7, much less a zombie.

I looked at the book in my lap. Yep, still the same; 21 pages of MRE inventory, recorded faithfully.

And he was still waiting.

I sighed. “You’re a mystery to me," I said, shaking my head, but nonetheless I turned back to the 1 st page, which was an entry from 6 months ago (The last time I visited The Cabin)

“Feb. 10, arranged books in alphabetical order…”

* * *

I stopped short of the Helicopter Incident. I was tired, Denver seemed to be nodding off, and I didn’t want to give him ideas in any case. Not that he seemed to remember it; Even so, better safe than sorry.

I left him sleeping next to the Hideous Floral Couch. What I’d do with him come morning would be a task for when I woke up; For now, I needed to get some shut-eye before anything else. It’s been a pretty damn long day, and I didn’t need to make it even longer.

I again thanked my father for his sensibility, as I bolted the oakwood bedroom door. Though it might not have withstood, say, a well-heaved battering ram, it could probably take one zombie.

Probably.

It’s a good thing my bed was comfortable.

As I settled into afore-mentioned very comfortable bed, I contemplated the vast complexities of life, chance, and circumstance. Mainly, that God has an incredibly twisted sense of humor.

I mean, here I was, doing very well, thankyouverymuch, in the middle of nowhere, for the express purpose of avoiding zombies.

And yet, not two weeks after my arrival, heaven itself rains a zombie down on me. 

The chances of  that should be nigh-impossible; and yet it happened, and not just that; but it would have to be an intelligent (fairly) speaking (sorta) zombie?

Maybe this  _ was  _ all a cabin fever-induced hallucination. Or perhaps I died, and this was some sort of vague limbo as punishment for, I dunno, not donating to those Santas at the mall every Christmas, or some other minor infraction that required disproportionate retribution. 

_ Either way, _ I thought, as I drifted off to sleep,  _ the man upstairs is a sick bastard _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Hope you liked this one. Please leave a review or a kudos if you did <3


	8. Cover

The next day was a Thursday.

Dad always hated Thursdays.

I don’t know why he hated them. I, personally, held no particular disdain for them; To me, they were just another day of the week. For Dad, it was another matter entirely. He loathed Thursdays with a hatred typically reserved for dentists, lawyers, and doing taxes. For some reason, Dad reviled Thursdays, and Thursdays reviled him (or so he claimed)

You could say it was one of his…_ odder _ quirks.

Oh, he tried to justify it. He’d say it was the day when all the bills arrived, or that it was the day that got in the way of Friday (i.e., one more day between him being at work and him going up to The Cabin) or some other crappy excuse. All it meant to me was that he was in a surlier mood than usual, which is maybe further proof of him having some sort of mental illness, but I don’t know. Not that him having a mental illness would change anything; he’d probably refuse to take any meds, and fight anyone who tried to take him to a nuthouse.

Live and let live, Dad used to say.

In either case, I would have yet to see if my day would be so-so, or if it would turn into a shitstorm.

Hopefully not the latter, because, frankly, I hate getting blood on the carpets.

* * *

The sun was shining, the Glock was loaded, and I was ready.

I listened at the door. Sure, it was thick, but you never know. I wasn’t about to walk into the next room in a sleepy daze, and into the waiting claws of a hungry zombie; Supposedly-reformed or no, sometimes you have to let the cynicism win. 

Cynicism makes for survivors.

I didn’t hear anything, but I flicked the safety off anyways. I unlatched it, listening all the while, and flung it open, ready to fire. I must’ve done it a wee bit forcefully, because it went_ bang _ as it hit the wall.

Denver was on the Hideous Floral Couch, jumping a bit at the_ bang _, and giving me an inquisitive look.

I hid my sheepish feeling as I put the gun away. Eh, better safe than sorry.

The zombie didn’t seem to mind, in any case. He jumped off the couch, and padded over to the door with an expectant look on his face. 

“You want to go out,” I said, my tone deadpan. _ What the hell, is he a dog? _I thought, but he didn’t offer me any answers on the matter.

I opened the front door (The fact zombies can’t open doors is a relief, I’ll tell you that) and nearly regretted it, as the little bastard nearly bowled me over as he sprang out, and lighted for the woods. 

He was gone for several minutes, and I waited, the cold Maine air making my breath fog. Several more minutes passed by, and I was starting to wonder if he was caught in the fence again when he came back, with a very traumatized-looking squirrel in his mouth and a proud look on his face. 

My response was purely automatic.

“Den, _ drop _.” I said, and he dropped the squirrel. Apparently, it was merely stunned in its capture, because it came to the minute it hit the ground, and ran off.

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered, or terrified (The squirrels around here are fast little buggers, they’re hard to catch) so I just went with authoritative.

“No hunting squirrels.” I said, giving him a steely look. He looked crestfallen at this, so I added, “At least, not in front of me. And try not to the shirt dirty, ‘k? I have to wash the laundry by hand here.”

At this, he seemed to cheer up, and padded past me into the Cabin.

* * *

Breakfast was fairly uneventful, and it was MREs, since I hadn’t gotten any decent game recently. Denver seemed to take to them pretty well, which surprised me; I guess the whole zombie/brains things is a myth. It was just as well; I was fresh out of pilot.

* * *

Saying words to me.

Again.

Like to hear the words. Remind me of something. Far off. Voices, in the back of head. 

Dark now. Like the dark. Light hurts my eyes, so I wear thing on my…_ hood _ over them. Makes everything dark.

In light-time, she <strike> Mar </strike> is doing many things, with many smells. Lights the smoky-thing that is warm, near the nice sleeping place, and getting wet-stuff <strike> water </strike> and other stuff I can’t get my head to say <strike>remember</strike>.

But it is dark-time, and now she is saying words from the flat-thing. Listen. Can’t remember the words, but it fills head with noises.

Nice noises. Like the noises.

“----- standard survival ---- ---- -------. Any longer, and the ------ ----- ---- --- -------. Common ------ such as -----, ----- ------, --- --- ---- to be kept -- hand -- ------ --------.”

Sometimes head tells me what words are. 

She smells… relaxed. Not scary. Was scary earlier, when I tried to being prey. <strike> Hunt. </strike>

Now is not scary. 

Not scared.

* * *

For a Thursday, it seemed to lack a fair amount of the despicability that Dad claimed that it held. True, as I did the morning chores, I had to turn my back every 8 seconds, out of sheer paranoia, and, true, when we went out to check the traps, he brought back a rabbit, but it was otherwise peaceful. What amazed me was how friggin _ tame _ the damn zombie was. I don’t know what exactly happened, if perhaps the knock I gave him just yesterday made his head right again (Ha!) or, hey, maybe the cosmic justice thing. Anyways, by the end of the day, I stopped jumping every time he moved. Call it letting my guard down, but, frankly, I had a feeling Denver didn’t want to tear my guts out.

Probably.

All in all, it was pretty good progress for a Thursday (Or any day, for that matter.) I caught a couple of mink, I got some wood loaded in for the fireplace, and I managed to get a zombie that tried to kill me yesterday practically begging me to read James Grigori’s _ The Work of a Man Who Once Had Too Much Time on His Hands _ (Which is the greatest survival manual ever to be written by someone declared clinically insane).

Oh, how the world turns, and how the mind adapts.

He didn’t talk much. Just mostly grunts, and growls, and the occasional screech or shout. I guess he used up all of his mental energy on the last little conversation. (Read: A few words) Hopefully, he was just clamming up; Speech therapy isn’t one of my strong suits.

At least it meant he kept quiet for the reading.

“Constant vigilance is a necessity in any survival situation,” I read aloud. Denver looked enamored; whether he actually understood the words, I didn’t know.

“The various entrapments of non-awareness may be alluring, but be warned! Danger lurks every corner, and death awaits those who close their eyes! Settle not for mediocrity, but for the highest standard of focus and attentiveness in all endeavors that you may undertake! This, of course, applies to your arms, in all cases, which shall be covered in Chapter VII, _ Various Assorted Weaponry and Its Uses in Anarchistic Situations _ (_With additional notes on flamethrowers) _.”

Yep, for a Thursday, it was pretty damn productive. 


	9. The Edge of Madness

Time flies when you’re outside of the calendar.

True, we had our routines, and I kept the dates checked in the log, but when you’re on your own timetable, specific days sort of slip past you. I guess when you’re in the so called ‘civilized’ world, you sort of have a bit that keeps the date and time in check, if only because of deadlines and meeting and whatnot. It’s always,  _ Test on 6/21 _ and  _ Appt. at 5:30 on 2/16 _ and such. Here, the wood doesn’t ask you what the time is, and the water bucket doesn’t want to know your schedule. It just needs to be chopped, or hauled, or skinned, or chased, or oiled, or what-have-you. This can lead, of course, to cabin fever, and some go flying off into the great blue sky of the madness of solitude. You do, however, keep yourself chained to the earth with routines. 

Even when you have a zombie with you.

(Though it does make the schedule a hella lot more variable, I’ll tell you that.) 

Despite this, the first week went past with surprising…normality. True, I would occasionally find a dead squirrel here and there, and more of my time in the evenings was devoted to re-reading survival manuals, but it seemed less and less weird as time went on. The nagging doubts in the back of my quieted down, my trigger finger eased away, and I soon thought of him less as a zombie, and more as Denver.

The fact that he improved his vocabulary certainly helped matters. 

Zombies…tend not to make for conversation partners, to say the least. Even sans the whole ‘eat your brains’ part, Denver didn’t talk much for the first couple of days. He started to speak up after I read to him for a while; He was up to full sentences by the end of the week. 

I think it was the reading. Well, partly. He seemed to stick to stuff that he heard from the manuals I read. This explained why he knew the word for, say, ‘hatchet’ but not for ‘garden gnome’, though here and there he’d say something that I was pretty damn sure I hadn’t said or read to him. I wasn’t really teaching him, anyways; It seemed to be more that he was remembering the words, and could recall them once he heard them. 

I didn’t ever tell him how I found him.

I think he had a vague idea of it; At one point, I saw him looking at his hands, and then mine, and then back at his, like he had an idea that his claws ≠ my fingers, but he seemed to shake it off and go back to napping. 

* * *

I went to bury the pilot when Denver wasn't looking.

Partly, it was for sanitary reasons. Dead bodies are nasty things; they carry all sorts of microbes and shit that can make ya sick and attract pests. Plus, it just didn't seem right to leave the poor bastard out without a proper burial.

When I got there, there wasn't anything to bury.

The helicopter was gone; Just the skid-marks scarring the ground were it hit, and a wreck-shaped hole in the universe. The only reason I knew I hadn't been hallucinating about the crash was because of Denver, (And even that was into question) and the fact that there were still scorches on the boulder the chopper hit.

I suppose whoever owned it decided to take it back, dead pilot  _ et al _ . How the hell they did it without me noticing, I have no damn idea. I decided to leave it be at that; It meant that I had one less mess to clean up.

* * *

Two weeks since The Helicopter Incident passed. At this point, Denver and I could have a fairly normal conversation, though every now and then he’d have to stop and ask what something meant. (Unfortunately, we was a quick learner, so he picked up a fair amount of swearwords before I started watching my mouth.) I’d been out of civilization for about a month now, so he was my only real reminder of the apocalypse surely happening south of us (Which is fine by me. I still had plenty of MREs) that I never really worried about.

Well, until I found the scratches, because God is a mean bastard.

It was a fairly normal morning; Den was sleeping on the Hideous Floral Couch (I offered him dad’s old room, but he said he liked to be in front of the fire) when I came in.

“Up and at ‘em, buddy.” I said, tossing a pillow at him as I passed by to light the fire.

He groaned, and turned over, nearly falling off of the couch as he did so, managing to catch himself just in time. He sat up, and shook his head. “Mornin’.” He growled, blinking muzzily.

“Trap checking today,” I said. It was a daily thing, but I didn't always take Denver along; he said his scent around the snares scared stuff off if he went too often. 

Breakfast was fairly subdued, and was (mercifully)  _ not  _ MREs, but jerky. It was late October, so the morning was cold, and there was a thin sheen of frost on the grass.

Den bounded ahead of me, leaving bare patches where the frost was. He hadn’t caught any squirrels recently, mostly because they actually became clever enough to know how to get past him. Eventually, he gave up and came back. 

The range of the traps was fairly wide, and I preferred to rotate them on a regular basis for the sake of variety. It encompassed about a 2-mile radius from The Cabin, and I was in the outer edges of one of the less-frequented areas when I found the claw-marks.

Y’know the scratches I mentioned earlier? The ones around Den’s eyes? Pretty damn horrifying, and they were still awful disconcerting to see if you weren’t used to it. Well, I’ll tell ya, they were paper cuts, practical BS compared to the ones I found on some poor mutilated pine tree about two and a half miles from home.

“What the hell” I said, feeling them over with my hands, “Made these?”

They were huge, like something big had taken its pent-up rage against a tree. Though they seemed old (The bark’s exposed inside seemed pretty dried and faded) it was still bleeding sap. Animal scratches on trees weren't to uncommon - it's how a lot of them marked their territory - but whatever made this looked like it was trying to tear the tree down.

Denver took a sniff at them, and snorted. “’S too old to tell.” He said, shaking his head. “Scent’s too faded.”

“Hmph.” I grumbled. 

“It looks almost like…bear marks. Bu this isn’t normal bear behavior.” I said, looking at the trees ahead, which were just as decimated. “Bear scratch up trees to sharpen their claws, sure. But they don’t actively try to destroy them…”

At this point, I was starting to get a bit worried. It was probably nothing, but if there was something out there…

Den must’ve smelled it, because he answered my unasked question.

“There isn’t anything coming this way, I think. The wind is blowing towards us, and I don’t smell anything.”

This was a bit more reassuring, but I kept the rifle close anyways.

* * *

Then there was the deer.

It was just a quarter-mile south from the claw-marks, and about a mile west from the helicopter crash. For some reason, I’d decided to go off the beaten path; maybe it was just me being shaken by the claw-marks. 

The woods were quieter here, which was unnerving. Even in the cold of fall, you could usually hear a bird here and there, or maybe a squirrel running around (Usually from Denver, but I digress).

I chalked it up to the upcoming winter, but my growing sense of unease couldn’t be shaken.

It was Denver who found it. 

I heard his screeching from ahead of me, and I came running, gun out, hackles raised.

“What the he-“ I started, and stopped, as soon as I saw what it was.

It was a stag—only hours dead, by the looks of it—torn open and clawed, like the pilot from before, but, oh God, the shreds were so much bigger…

Blood stained the ground around it, and even I could smell its sharp tang in the air. The head was still intact, the eyes open, and glassy, starting towards the sky and seeing nothing…

Like I said, I’m not naturally squeamish, but even now, my stomach churned a bit. 

Denver was circling it, tensed up, and growling, which scared me, as he only did it nowadays when he was truly spooked. When he saw me, he stopped circling.

“Bad smells. Big thing.” He managed to say, snarling, his speech degrading in his fear.

I just nodded, gun still drawn. “Is it still around?” I asked, quietly.

He shook his head. “Gone now.”

I put the Glock away, but didn’t relax. Instead, I approached the body, surveying the damage. Den stopped growling, but I could sense his unease as he followed me for a closer look.

“It’s a bear, alright.” I said, examining the bite marks. Too wide to be wolf, too big to be another zombie.

_ But what kind of bear _ , I thought,  _ does THIS kind of damage? _

The only kinds of bears in the region were black bears, and they usually didn’t go for stag. What kind of predator would simply eviscerate their prey, and leave it there, uneaten?

“Smells…” said Den, suddenly, “…sick.”

“Sick?” I asked.

“Like…” he said, lost in thought. “Like angry things.”

“Angry things?”

“Like… me.” He said.

“Like… you-sick?”

“Yeah. That kind of sick.”

Fuck. Just what I need, a zombie-bear. “I thought the reports said it wasn’t zoonotic...” I started, but my thoughts turned to another part of the report.  _ Mutated rabies virus… _

Damn.

“What do we do about it?” Den asked, now next to me, as I was kneeling next to the carnage, the smell of blood filling my nose and making my head hurt.

His voice was low, and lined with caution, like he was afraid that if he spoke too loudly, the bear would show up there and then.

I brushed the dirt off of my cargo pants as I got up. “We can’t leave it running around.” I said, trying to sound confident. “It’s scaring off the game, and if it gets to The Cabin...” I trailed off.

“We can’t take the risk, that’s all. I know how to take care of it.” I said, and with that, I turned and made my way back home.

* * *

Keep behind Marcy. She still smells a little bit scared.

I don’t like this. The  _ thing  _ back there, makes me scared, the scent is going away now, but my head still feels scared…

<strike> Bad smell big thing run pounce run away rival run </strike>

We’re back home now. Marcy says to wait outside, and she comes out a moment later with some big-metal-things on her shoulder.

I stare at them. Very scary big-metal-things.

She had a gun too, but not her little one; It’s big, and long, and she has it on her back. It smells like smoke and fire, and it hurts my nose.

She starts going back to the blood-bad-smelling place, but she doesn’t smell scared, much. She smells…  _ angry _ . Not big-angry, but little-angry, like…

<strike> Determined  </strike>

I don’t walk too close to her, a little bit because of the big-metal-things.

When she close to the bad-blood-smell-place, she says, “Can you smell the trail from here?”

Sniff. Try to get the smell under all the blood.

<strike> Blood kill prey chase bite </strike>

I shake my head. “This way,” I say. The smell is a little bit old, but strong. Smells angry, like big-angry...

<strike> “TANK! SHOOT IT!” _ _ </strike>

I still hear the noises in my head, sometimes.

Marcy followed me, and I follow the smell. We walk a long time. Very long time. The smell gets stronger…

“Here,” I say. The smell stops, and goes into a dark-rock-place. It's a big hole in the side of an even bigger rock. Very strong here. Smells like predator. And sick. 

<strike>Jump run pounce run flee</strike>

Growl at smells.

Marcy smells a little uneasy, now. Haven’t ever been around here. Far from home. Not familiar.

She sniffs. :"Yep, that's a bear cave if I've ever smelled one."

She takes off the big-metal-scary thing.

“No use trying to shoot it in the dark,” She says, very quiet. She pulls open the metal-thing, and I see it looks like the traps she uses.

It’s very big.

I stay away from it. Stay away from dark-place too. Can’t hear much in it, but smell…

<strike> Blood prey kill run </strike>

“No black bear,” She says, looking at the trap, “Is going to avoid that, much less an infected one.” She smells a little less afraid, but still scared when we go home.

Later, when she reads me  _ General Tacticus’ Doctrines of War Strategy and Annihilation _ , she smells uneasy.

I don’t think she will stop smelling that way until the bear is dead.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Blood and gunfire ahead.

I refused to relax until the bear was dead.

I had trouble sleeping that night. Sure, I was tired, and I usually sleep like a rock (Hey, I slept through a helicopter crashing into the woods less than a mile from my house. You draw your own conclusions). But my worries just came back to haunt me like the little bastards they were. 

Call it a primal fear, but something in me didn’t like the idea of a zombie-bear crashing around outside, just waiting for an opportunity.

I considered sleeping in the nuclear bunker, but it freaked out Den to be in windowless spaces, so I decided against it.

I gave up on the idea of sleep, eventually, and got up, opening the door to the main room.

Denver, to my surprise, was awake, instead of being curled up on the Hideous Floral Couch (As was his favorite spot) and was, instead, pacing in front of the door to the outside, growling.

I’d long ago gotten used to his odd habits. The fact that he curled up when he slept, or that he ran and pounced on all fours, and chased miscellaneous small squeaky things, I chalked up to permanent damage from the virus; (How exactly it’d done it, I have no damn idea) The fact that he could run faster and jump higher than me this way was a factor in why I didn’t bug him over it.

Still, seeing him like that was a pretty disconcerting sight. 

“Den?” I asked, calling quietly. He stopped at the sound of my voice, but didn’t move from his vigil.

I sighed. “Den, the bear’s not here. I'm pretty damn sure of that. It’s OK,” I said, trying to reassure him, as much as myself.

He stayed where he was, and his silence told me he was still worried. I left him be, stoking the dying embers of the fire and throwing on a couple of logs, and sitting back against the Hideous Floral Couch, hugging my knees against a shiver that ran down them, despite the warmth of the fire.

Where was the dead-mode when I needed it?

Denver came up to my side, silently, and sat next to me. He said nothing, which was usual for him, but I had a feeling he was being quiet on purpose.

I calmed down, by degrees. The fire crackled, and the wind howled a little but outside. Everybody talks about how cities are noisy, but even rural places are seldom quiet. Still, the sounds of the woods outside, and the cabin, and even Denver's breathing, smoothed out my nerves.

It was a moment of peace in the night before the storm in the morning. I savored it. 

It was Denver that broke the silence.

“Mar,” he said, quietly. He knew my full name, but still called me ‘Mar’ out of habit every now and then. “I’m…”

“Scared?” I replied, finishing his thoughts for him. He nodded.

“I am, too,” I admitted. “But you know what?” I said, my fear slipping away a little bit.

“We’ll kick some ass in the morning.”

* * *

Wake up against the couch.

My eyes are shut, but I know Marcy isn’t there; I can still smell her a bit, but I know she's not close.

I get up and stretch. Wake my legs up, so I can pounce. 

Feel the worry in my stomach again. Worry about what will happen.

<strike> Hunter rival prey run </strike>

“Hey, you’re up.”

Turn to the sound of her voice. The worry feeling goes away a little bit, then I see the big-scary-gun-thing on the table.

Go up to the table with the big-scary-gun-thing. She nods at me, and makes a _ shhkk _ sound with the gun. “Though I’d wait until you were awake,” she says. “Once it's in the trap, it should be a pretty easy cleanup, though its good to have backup.”

_ Yes. _ My head says. _ I don’t want you to get hurt. _

I don’t say it, though. I just go to the outside-door and wait.

“No breakfast?” she says, smelling confused. I shake my head. The worry-feeling in my stomach is too much for food. 

Now she smells worried. Not as much as yesterday. Right now, she smells like _ protect-home _ and _ kill rival _. 

It was a scary smell.

Scary-smelling Mar is opening the door, and I follow her out.

It rained a little bit, so the air smells like water and dirt. “Can you catch any scents?” she asks.

Shake head. Stupid rain! It washed away lots of scent from yesterday. Marcy is smart. She remembers the trail from yesterday.

The wind is blowing at us, and it still smells like water.

I don’t smell the bear until we see it, after we walk awhile the same way we did yesterday. 

Marcy showed me a picture of a bear, once. It was a big-black thing, and in the picture it was on a tree. It didn’t smell like anything, which confused me.

The bear in the trap-thing looks like the picture-bear, but much bigger. It smells, too. It smells like blood and prey, but mostly it smells like sick, and sad, and hurt.

Marcy breathes in, quick, but I don’t think the bear can move. It just sits there. 

It smells very very sick. Like me-sick, but much stronger.

It’s breathing, hard, and it isn’t moving much; It has its leg in the trap thing, but doesn’t try to get away.

_ Hurt _ . Not a rival-smell, or a big-angry smell like before, but just _ sick _ . _ Pain. Hurt. Dead. _

It reminds me of something.

Marcy takes off the gun-thing. “Poor bugger,” she says, looking at the bear. “I thought I’d be bigger…” she says, quieter this time, and she holds up the gun-thing to her face.

The worry-feeling is sharper now, and I feel very scared. 

Growl a little bit. Don’t like the gun-thing.

“You don’t have to watch, if you don’t want to,” she says, smelling a little sad, even over the smell of bear.

She waits while I run. Run run run. Far-leaps, long-jumps, get away from the smell of sick, and rival, of smoke and fire…

I get to the place with the claw-marks. Stop there. Breathe hard, chest is all thumpy, scared in my stomach, in my head, _ everywhere… _

I still hear the _ bang _behind me, and it hurts my ears a little bit.

Jump at the sound, then relax. _ It’s over. _ I think.

Chest stops thumping, the worry goes away. Nothing to hurt us now. Safe.

Wait there a little bit. Don’t want to worry Marcy too much, so I sit there. Smell some of the claw marks. Very old, so not much smell.

Wait.

Stop.

New claw-mark here. Smell is very strong. Very fresh. Just this morning. Smells like the blood-place.

<strike> Rival hunter run angry sick attack run </strike>

Doesn’t smell like the trapped bear. Not right. Different.

_ I could have sworn it’d be bigger… _

Bear in trap smelled… male. Not like this.

Claw-mark smells…female. Like Mar.

_ There’s more than one bear. _My head says. I smell the trail; It smells like water, but under it is the she-bear smell, back to where Mar is…

<strike> RUN pounce chase rival HUNT angry FIGHT </strike>

I listen.


	11. A Shot in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Gunfire, blood, gore, death.

It took one dose of buckshot to put Smokey out of his misery.

_ Finally.  _ I thought, as the smoked cleared, and the bear slumped to the ground, now a lump of rapidly-cooling meat.  _ It’s over, _ I thought with relief, as I put I slung the gun over my back and approached the carcass. It was just by the mouth of the cave, and I intended to make quick work of disposing the bear’s body. I’d known the cave was on our property, but I didn’t ever really come near it until this point.

_ I wonder how the hell I'm going to get rid of this, _ I thought, as I pulled the trap off of the bear's leg. There weren't exactly any convenient dumpsters nearby, and I didn't reckon zombie-bear meat was good for jerky.

I was just going to grab the other, still-open trap from the ground, when I heard a growl from deep within the cave.

It wasn’t a Denver growl. Oh, no. It wasn’t even a plain old zombie growl. 

It was a bear growl.

It sounded mad as hell.

And it was getting closer.

I bolted up.  _ Fuck _ . I thought, breaking into a run.  _ FucfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK _

I didn’t look behind me. If I did, it would mean death. A long, messy,  _ painful _ death. Instead, I just got the hell out of there. I could hear it growling behind me, its paws hitting the earth,  _ youidiotwhydidn’tyouconsidertheremightbemorethanonebearFUUUUCK _

I managed to scrabble up a tree, which is no easy feat when all you have around you are maples and pines, but that’s what getting chased by a rabid bear will do for you.

The behemoth snapped at my heels as I hauled myself up, foaming at the mouth, eyes red and rheumy. Hell, the bear I’d shot back there was positively benign compared to  _ this _ …

Even though I was running on fear and adrenaline, and even though I was struggling to stay on the awfully narrow branch that was the difference between life and bear food, and the bar was shaking the tree like a rain instrument, a little voice in my head still managed to, through all the  _ FUCKs _ , say,  _ You failed a spot-check, idiot. _

And, even through all the above-mentioned, another part of me managed to reply,  _ No shit, Sherlock _ .

Man, I was royally screwed.

The bear stopped shaking now, and it was circling the tree. I still had the hunting rifle, but at that point, I was having trouble staying on the damn branch, much less aiming and shooting.

_ I hope to God that thing is too fucked in the brain to climb, _ I thought, vehemently, as it watched me with hungry, angry eyes.

Then the bear started clawing again, with renewed vigor, shaking the tree even more, as I clung to the tree in an attempt to stay on.  _ Crap. _ How long would this thing stay up before the bastard knocked it over?

Then I heard the scream. 

It wasn’t a scream of fear. Far from it, in fact. It was a scream that said,  _ I’m going to fuck you up. Badly. _

I’d heard it before, and it seemed to be eons away, but had only been two weeks ago.

It was Denver, and he was on the hunt.

A blur hit the bear, snarling and screaming, attacking with all force. 

I didn’t have time to watch, as my hands finally slipped, and I plummeted from the tree.  _ Roll.  _ I thought as I fell, and I tumbled head-over-heels as I hit the ground. I wrestled the rifle from its strap, as I could tell up from down, frantically aiming. 

The bear didn’t notice me. It had other matters to attend to.

Denver, for one thing.

He was attacking it with tooth and claw and god-know-what-else, never relenting, growling, snarling, tearing, slashing, biting…

The bear fought back in its own way, trying to cuff him with a paw, or bite into him with a slavering maw, but Den was too fast, too light, and too furious for the bear to get a good grip on him.  Watching him, he seemed almost inhuman; the screams, the blood on his claws, the merciless way he tore at the bear’s thick hide…

_ This is his true nature, _ said a voice in my head, treacherous, though I thought I had silenced it long ago.  _ The wild fury with which it fights, and hunts, and if it weren’t for sheer luck, this would have been your fate. _

And I didn’t argue with this, because it was true. If it weren’t for luck, I would’ve ended up as a pulpy mess on the ground. As the bear seemed to be heading to, as it was. 

The fighting was certainly slowing down. The gashes on the bear were too deep; and its mad swipes became less sure, less strong. Denver was slowing down , too, and his claws became less random and furious, and more precise. Still, they were too mobile for me to get a definitive aim with my rifle, without risking hitting Den.

However, it was a risk I never had to take, since he ended it for me.

With a final, feral snarl, he bit into the bear’s throat, shaking and growling as the bear teetered, blood spurting from under the zombie’s teeth. Then, with one, final, drunken, desperate swipe, the bear swayed, and hit the ground with a  _ thud, _ defeated, and dead.

I lowered the gun, slowly, taking in what I had seen. It had happened in the matter of minutes; no,  _ seconds _ , but it had felt like a lifetime.

I got up from my crouched position, standing, looking at the bloody scene before me.

Denver didn’t move from the top of the bear.

“Den” I called. He didn’t respond.

“It’s over. You killed it. Let’s get home and get you patched up.” I said, lowering the gun. 

Den still didn’t move. He just stood there, crouched, breathing heavily.

“Den?” 

Then, at the sound of my voice, he turned.  _ Something isn’t right _ . I thought, and something made me grab the Glock at my side.

Time slowed down for me. 

The second he saw me, he let out a scream--a broken, feral thing, that scream was—and pounced. I backed up, gun out, heart racing, terror running through my mind. He landed on me, full-force, snarling. 

It was just like before, when I first encountered him.

Except, now, my gun was loaded.

I held it up to his head in an instant, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. 

He didn’t claw, or attack; instead, he growled, a low, savage sound that warned to become something bigger.

There was still blood around his mouth.

“Denver. It’s me. Marcy.” I said, my voice quiet and shaking.

My gun arm was as steady as a rock.

“Please stop. I know you can hear me. Don’t make me shoot. Please.”

My heart was going a million miles a minute.

Denver didn’t move, and just kept growling.

_ It’ll be OK, he’ll go back to normal any second now, and I’ll scold him and get him home and clean off the blood and read Chapter 8 of General Tacticus, _ I thought desperately, through the haze of fear.

Then I looked into his eyes.

These were not the friendly brown eyes I had grown used to over the weeks. These weren’t the eyes of the person who learned to speak, or that I’d cleaned blood off of, or that I’d read to.

These were the eyes of a hunter, a cruel and savage thing whose only purpose was to kill.

And I was about to die.

I pressed the gun closer to his head, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. _ _

Then, something flashed in those scary eyes of his and he blinked, just for a moment.

He looked down, and his eyes widened, like he was surprised to see me. 

Then he sprang off me, turned, and ran.

I waited there, until I couldn’t hear the sound of his hands hitting the ground any longer, headed off for who-knows-where, leaving me on the ground in the woods of northern Maine, with only the wind howling in the trees for noise.

* * *

I don’t remember the walk back home.

Maybe I looked like a zombie. Maybe I didn’t. All I remember was the spreading numbness, through and around me, like a cold, steel cage that surrounded me.

When I got inside, I bolted the door, leaned and against it, staring, but not seeing.

All I could hear was the voice in my head, that had warned me the whole time, and that I had ignored; But now, it was ringing, clear as a bell, through all of my other thoughts.

_ I told you so. _

And now that it had the floor, that damn voice wouldn’t shut up.

_ I told you not to trust it. That... _ thing  _ that just nearly killed you, again. _

_ What the hell were you thinking, Mar? Playing doctor to a zombie? Re-enact  _ Born Free _ ? It was a killer, Marzia, an animal, and nothing more. You knew it. But you didn’t listen. You should have shot it the first time, and then again, just to be sure. Put it out of its misery, and get on with life. But you didn’t, did you? _

_ Now look at what happened. _

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because that goddamn voice was right.

It’d been right the entire time.

Then, I really  _ did _ cry, because it hit me like a ton of bricks: If I wanted to live safely up here, and survive, like Dad wanted, Denver would have to die.

* * *

I cried. I cried and wept and sobbed and all the other conceivable verbs that you could think of that involved leaking saltwater from your eye-holes because you had to kill your friend.

I did this in a very un-survivor-like fashion, but I did it anyways.

_ It’s for the best.  _ I thought, as I wiped my eyes and loaded my Glock.  _ You need to trap game and haul water and chop wood and repair the roof, and you can’t do that with a rabid zombie around, can you? _

I was starting to get the numb feeling all over again, but this time, it was colder.

Meaner.

Less human.

_ Besides _ , I thought, looking at the weapon in my hands.  _ It’s better for him to die this way, than by starvation.  _

_ It’s mercy.  _

* * *

By the time I was ready, my weapon was loaded, my eyes were dry, and I felt nothing.

Dead-mode came over me.

Nothing but all business.

I walked to where I’d last seen him, eyes wild, and claws red. I had the gun out, and I felt no fear. 

If something moved, I shot. No shaking. No nervousness. Just coldness.

I must have thinned the squirrel population around there by 3-fold by the time I found the bear.

It was still lying there, stiff and stale, rigor mortis setting in already. It looked like a prop in a play; Eyes glassy, may still gaping, dried foam and blood still around its mouth, sitting on the stage after its part was finished.

I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel anything. I kept walking.

There were blood-spots on the ground, heading west, towards the cave.

Something in my head, no more than an echo, really, worried about Den being hurt, but it was silenced by the cold part of me.

_ It’s just a round of pest control _ . I thought.  _ Nothing more. _

I followed the trail to the cave, walking, never stopped.

The other bear was still by the front of the cave where I’d left it, sick and sad, and as prop-like as the other one.

The other bear trap was gone, and the blood-drips went into the cave.

I felt no fear at this. I just pulled out the flashlight I brought, turned it on, and walked in.

The heavy stench of musk, blood, decay, and, above all, _bear_ hit me, but I kept walking, even as the bones of animals crunched under my boots.

The cave hit a curve.

I heard growling, and, as I hit the corner, my finger flew to the trigger, and the gun was up in one hand, and the light was in the other.

I turned the curve, and there he was.

He was hunched over, obviously in pain, and he hissed as he beam of the flashlight hit his eyes.

I lowered it, revealing the bear trap clamped on his left leg, the jaws deep into the flesh.

_ He can’t pounce.  _ I thought.  _ An easy cleanup. _

Part of me wanted to go to him; To bring him home and heal him and bring life back to the way it was, before, but then the cold part of me stopped me and said,  _ No, because even if you cure him, and he acts tame, one day he will pounce on you, and you won’t have your gun, and  _ _ you will die _ _ . _

“Den?” I asked. There was no shaking here; Just a quiet, hopeful question I wanted an answer to.

There was only growling.

“Den?” I asked, again, daring to wish. “Are you in there? It’s me, Mar.”

The growling only continued, and he made a pathetic attempt to shift his weight; To drag himself closer, to jump; But the trap stopped him, so he simply hissed.

And then, I knew he was gone to me; the Denver I knew was dead, and in his place was this rabid, savage  _ thing, _ whose only goal was to tear me limb from limb.

“Den,” My voice was quiet, and cold; It sounded sad and echoing against the cave’s walls.

“I’ll make this quick, because I know you’re in pain.”

I was on target. One hit, and it would be all over.

“I’m sorry.”

My hand was straight, and steady.

“I’m sorry for saving you. For not killing you the first time, or the second time. I should have ended it there. It would have been better…”

All I could hear was my own, slow heartbeat.

“ …For the both of us.”

I couldn’t do it.

I  had to do it.

“And…”

It was an act of mercy.

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

There was a sound of gunfire. It hit the target, finding its mark, straight and true.

The body swayed and teetered in the dark of the cave, before striking the ground, twitching for a moment, and then finally lying still.


	12. Make Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Blood, gore, and death.

_Two hours earlier_

__ Run.

Runrunrurnrun  _ Mar might be hurt  _ runrunrunRUN—

Stop. Smell air. Smell-

Anger. Listen. Hear big angry-noise, roaring, scraping, big noises in front of me.

Stalk now. Walk quietly. Come closer.

Bear is clawing at the tree. 

The bear is very big. Very angry. Very scary.

Mar is in the tree.

Run away from bear, get away—

_ No. _

Marcy helped me. Saved me. Protects me.

I smell her panic, even from far. Bear smells like  _ kill, hurt, pain,  _ _ bite _

Chase pounce scream tear

Crouch low. Ready to pounce.

<strike> Hunt claw growl </strike>

Scream. Scream at bear. MY prey.

Pounce.

Tear.

Bite.

Prey is very big. Even bigger than other prey. Kill this prey. MUST kill this.

Claw! Tear at prey! 

Blood on claws. Some pain, but doesn’t matter. 

<strike>KILL</strike> Growl. Scream. Dodge. Keep fighting.

Fight. Fight for long time.

Feel tired. Prey is slowing down. Less fight. Smell much blood. And pain. Smell pain.

Claw at face. Prey makes big-growl.

<strike> BITE </strike>

Bite hard. Taste blood. Shake. Bite  harder,  feel of flesh between teeth…

Prey is moving. Moving down. Falling. Blood in mouth. Prey on ground. Smell. 

Smells dead.

My kill.

Big kill.

Stand over kill.

Mine.

<strike> Den </strike>

Hear sound.

<strike> Den </strike>

Turn.

See thing. Standing. Smells of…

<strike> Prey  </strike>

Smaller. Easy kill.

Jump-growl. Pounce.

Land on prey. Smell fear.

Prey doesn’t fight. Easy to tear, easy to kill.

<strike> STOP </strike>

Head is saying things. Feel this before.

<strike> It’s me, Marcy  </strike>

Thing against head. Smell of smoke. Smoke thing  gun

Smell of fear.

<strike> I’ve been here before </strike>

Smells so familiar…

It’s Mar.

<strike> KILL </strike>

I’m about to kill Mar.

Mar is about to kill me.

<strike> FEAR </strike>

See eyes. Brown eyes.

Full of fear.

<strike>BITE run</strike>

Jump away  <strike> chase.  </strike> Run away from her. Runrunrunrunrunrunrun—

Was going to kill  <strike> prey </strike> Mar…

Runrunrunrunrun

Stop near dark place. Smell sick. Smoke.

See body of bear.

<strike> Get  away </strike>

Go to dark place hurryhurry

<strike>Why</strike>

<strike>chase prey</strike>

<strike> KILL </strike>

Leg hit thing.

<strike> PAIN </strike>

Hurt. Hurthurthurthurthurt. Scream at hurt. Whimper,  cry thing hurts leg SO MUCH

<strike> Help me Mar </strike>

<strike> TEAR </strike>

In dark place. Smells like dead, sick, blood, prey. Safe here.

Sit. Crouch.

Hurts. SO MUCH.

<strike> Cry </strike>

Wait. Waitwaitwait. Wait long time.

Pain.

* * *

Something coming.

Crouch  <strike> ow  </strike> hurts too much…

Smell. Smells…like… <strike> Mar </strike>

Prey.

Pounce-crouch  <strike> OW HURTS </strike>

Can’t pounce.

Light in face. Bad! Bad light! Hurts more!

Hiss. Light goes away.

<strike> Den </strike>

What is ‘Den’?

<strike> “Den, drop!” </strike>

<strike> “D-----, are you coming back?” </strike>

Growl. Bad noises.

Try to go to prey, attack  <strike> BITE </strike> . Thing on leg too heavy.

Growl. Maybe prey will go away.

Funny smells. Smell of fear. Where?

Smell of fear…from… _ me _ .

Other smells coming. Don’t know.

Other sounds nearby.

More sounds. From prey.

<strike> I’m sorry. </strike>

_ Sorry. _ Big word. Means…

<strike> Forgive </strike>

Why?

Den? Den is…

Me.

I am Den.

<strike> I’m sorry </strike>

* * *

Banging sounds. Not from prey.

From somewhere else.

Smell things. Bad things! Run. Try to run, thing on leg too heavy  <strike> PAIN </strike>

Prey  <strike> Mar  </strike> smells funny. Moving. Swaying. Back and forth. Falling, like big-prey.

Dead? Doesn’t smell dead.

Looks dead.

Many smells. Manymanymany smells, and noises. Growl. Hiss at smells!

<strike> “Is the sector secure?” </strike>

Smells don’t go away.

<strike> “Utilizing tranquilizer on Subject 1-CB now” </strike>

Bad noises. Badbad noises. Lights. 

Bad lights.

<strike> Ow </strike> hurt in neck.

Lights going away. Getting dark.

The many colored flying things, and feel heavy, and many smells…

Smells stop.


	13. The Director

I woke up seeing lights.

I squinted; These weren’t the lights of the heavenly variety, or even the fire-and-brimstone type.

They were florescent.

The kind found in hospitals.

Once my eyes got used to the non-celestial brightness, I took in the rest of my surroundings. There was a smell of disinfectant, and the crinkly chemical scent of sterility and floor cleaner. 

My neck stung; That was the last thing I remembered. It still hurt now.

There was a port in my right arm.

I shifted my weight, the paper hospital gown (Eh?) I was wearing crackling as I moved my very numb-feeling body.

“Good to see you’re conscious, Miss Walker.”

I turned to the source of the voice. 

I turned to the source of the voice, a California drawl that I thought I might've heard before.

There was a man sitting there, to my left, hands clasped, with the incorrigible smug calmness of someone who knew more than you, and somehow you owed him a favor for this.

He looked vaguely familiar.

“Please tell me,” I croaked - my tongue was like sandpaper, and my throat was parched - “That this is a mental hospital, and the entire zombie apocalypse was a series of delusions I dreamed up while lying here, which can be easily controlled with therapy and medication.”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Walker.”

“Damn. Where the hell am I, then?”

He sat back, gesturing to the white room.

“This, Miss Walker, is a CEDA-Sanctioned research hospital, located on an undisclosed island off the coast of Canada,” he turned back to me. “The last American outpost functioning east of the Mississippi River.”

“Great. Who the hell are you, and how did I get here?”

“One at a time, Ms. Walker. Firstly, I am Lucas Gatling, main Administrator and Director of the CEDA…”

Ah. That’d explain the familiarity. I’d seen Dad yelling at him on TV several times. (Then again, Dad yelled at _ all _ government officials, without discrimination.)

“Fine, Director,” I said. “Nice to meet you, to. Now can you please be so kind as to explain how exactly I ended up here? Last time I checked, I was in Northern Maine--_ not _ Canada.”

“You have been brought here, Miss Walker-“ _ Against my will. _ I thought to myself “—due to the CEDA’s express interest in your welfare, and due to certain circumstances which may benefit the public welfare.”

OK, wait, _ what _?!

“Cut the crap, Gatling,” I snarled, my patience running short. “Judging from what I’ve heard and read, you aren’t exactly the most benevolent of organizations. I’m here for a reason, and it isn’t because of the loving kindness of your heart.”

Gatling’s expression remained stony, though his tone was cold. “Very well, Miss Walker. To put it bluntly, you’re immune to the Green Flu, and of imperative interest to us.” 

Immune? “I’m a carrier.” I said, coldly. “There are probably other ones out there. There’s no reason for you to hold me here.”

Gatling, however, shook his head. “I didn’t say _ carrier _ , Miss Walker, I said _ immune _. Though you’ve been exposed to the virus—“ he nodded at the nearly-healed bite wound on my arm –“You have no trace of the virus in your body. Essentially, your immune system has fought off the virus completely, eradicating it.”

My thoughts stopped for a moment. Then they put the pieces together.

“I’m the only one, aren’t I,” I asked, in a way that wasn’t a question.

Gatling nodded. “We’ve preformed multiple evacuations and tests, but it seems that the genetics required for an Immune individual are exceedingly rare. Chances are, of course, that there _ are _others like you, but they have either perished from Infected attacks, or have yet to be rescued,” He paused, and added, “At least, until now.”

Crap.

“So…” I asked, cautiously (Though I wasn’t sure if it would help) “What does this mean for me?”

“As stated before.” Said Gatling, steepling his fingers, “It is in the public’s best interest to detain you for research purposes.”

“So you’re going to keep me here, then.”

“For lack of better phrasing, yes.”

“Why?”

Gatling sighed, like he knew I wasn’t going to like the answer. “Though I hate to admit it, Miss Walker, the CEDA is essentially desperate for solutions. Most of our operations have been taken over by the military; At this point, our only function is to attempt to find a vaccine, or, perhaps, a cure.”

“And you haven’t found one yet,” I said. _ Maybe Dad was right about the government being useless, _I thought.

Gatling shook his head again. “The virus…_ defies _ conventional methods. The standard weakened-pathogen method is ineffective, as the virus mutates on a near-daily basis. Though antibody-insertion is typically not the default line of action, it seems to be the only option with the resources at hand.”

“So you’re going to take my blood, inject it into some people, and see what happens,” I said, flatly.

Gatling smirked. “Oh, but we already have, Miss Walker. Though the clinical trials haven’t been fully completed, the initial results seem to be promising.”

“So,” I said, trying not to let my rising anger show. “You somehow kidnapped me to get here by god-knows-what-methods, took my blood, (which violates pretty much every medical law out there, buts it’s a goddamn zombie apocalypse so WHO GIVES A SHIT) and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?"

“In summation.”

“Fuck you.”

I was on the verge of extricating myself from the complicated tangle of tubes, ports, and various other medical thingies currently attached to me, leaving the room, jumping into the ocean, and swimming all the way back to Maine, when Gatling said something that stopped me.

“As kind as your insult is, Miss Walker, it would also be in _ your _ best interest to stay here.”

I was fuming, at this point. “_ My _best interest? For you to harvest my blood without my consent, like the bunch of vampires? How long are you going to keep me here, Gatling, as your guinea pig? Poke me full of needles, keep me in a windowless room until I die, and clone me? And for what purpose?”

“_B__ecause we need you _, Miss Walker,” Gatling said, his once-placid tone now taking an urgent turn.

I stopped in my escape, if only for a moment.

Gatling recomposed himself. “Miss Walker, we have no intention of detaining you for any longer than we need to,” he said (_ B.S. _ I thought, but I kept listening) “The only reason the Green Flu hasn’t spread to the western portion is because the Infected cannot swim, and because of strict quarantine protocol. Even so, the threat lives every day; millions, if not _ billions _ , are either infected, or dead, or are left for dead because of limited evacuation resources. The infected are mutating daily, as is the virus, and it will be only a matter of time before it spreads further.” He gave me a steely look. “Our only hope lies with a vaccine, Miss Walker, so we can curb the spread _ at the very least _. And our only hope for a vaccine,” he said, glaring at me, “Is you.”

“I have no choice in the matter, then.”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Walker.”

“And even if I did have a choice, I’d be the world’s biggest asshole if I refused.”

“You put it very eloquently, Miss Walker.”

I snorted. _If this ever blows over, I'm taking you to a zoo and pushing you in the tiger pit._

“Besides,” said Gatling. “I’m sure you’d like to stay in order to monitor the condition of your companion.”

“My compa...?” I started, and then the memories of the events past hit me like a ton of bricks.

_ Denver. _

Oh, shit.

“Where is he?” I asked, urgently, bolting upright in the bed. 

_ Oh God, I nearly killed him, I nearly shot him in the head…. _

“He’s currently sedated in the quarantine ward of the facility.” 

“And he’s…?” I started, trailing off, not wanting to ask. _ I probably shot him in the chest, and he’s dying, or he’s… _

Gatling looked confused, but seemed to pick up the unasked question. “He’s experiencing convulsions, muscle spasms, a dangerously high fever, a fair amount of blood loss from an injury to his side, and a broken leg, from what is believed to be a bear trap…” 

He saw my expression. “But is otherwise alive.”

The relief was like a wave; It flood me through, and washed away all the other questions and worries floating around in my head, and replaced them with one thought:

_ He’s alive, he’s alive, I didn’t kill him, what was I thinking… oh god, _ _ he’s still alive. _


	14. The Immune

I let myself calm down for a few minutes, before turning to Gatling again. “What’s…going to happen to him?” I asked, quietly.

“Tests are underway,” he said. “I must, however, ask you…what happened?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused. At this point, Gatling seemed to know more than I did about this.

“Our initial discovery of your…_ outpost _ , so to speak, was a coincidence.” He said. “The helicopter that crashed nearby contain valuable scientific equipment, along with several confidential notes and files.” _ Heh _ . I though. _ Not anymore. _

“While we were aware of an infected invasion of the chopper being the cause of the crash, an easy mop-up was expected.” He said. “A dead infected, perhaps, or even simply a mangled corpse. Instead, we found…”

“Us,” I finished. 

“Yes.” He confirmed. “A known infected communicating, socializing, and interacting on a friendly basis. One that seemed almost…_ human _.”

“So you spied on us.”

“Certainly. Our intel team kept their distance, to avoid confrontation, and returned to base soon afterwards. After some deliberation, they decided to call for backup—“

“And perform a kidnapping.”

“Such strong words, Miss Walker. We prefer the term _ extraction _.”

_ No, you extract a tooth. You kidnap a fellow human being, _ I thought, but I kept it to myself. I was ticked off at the spying part, to no end; they were spying on me, on my own damn property, ferChrissakes! Even worse: _ I wasn’t able to catch them. _

Gatling continued, despite all my rage.

“However, when the team arrived, you were nowhere to be found. We eventually tracked you down—“

_ Dead bears will do it. _

"--And found you apparently ready to shoot your friend. When approached he seemed feral; we weren’t sure exactly how this happened. All we know is he was still infected for the duration of his time with you, yet still, to an extent, tame.”

“So he’s an anomaly? A mutation that’s partially immune?”

“Not quite. He bit you, yes?” Gatling said, nodding to the bite mark on my arm again. 

“Yeah. Hurt like hell.”

“It bled, didn’t it?” 

“ ’Course it did. What are you getting at?”

“Did he have any open cuts in his mouth at the time?”

Oh. Hm. That would explain it, wouldn’t it. 

“So it’s a reverse zombie thing?” I asked, incredulously. “I get bitten, the zombies turn into, I dunno, me?” (That was a pretty scary thought. A world full of Marcys would be a dangerous place).

Gatling actually cracked a smile at this. “No, but we theorize that a donation of blood could serve as a cure. We’re still testing it, of course.”

“Will it work?”

“We don’t know.”

“What’s going to happen to Den, then?”

Gatling looked confused for a moment, and I realized that I’d never told him Denver’s name. “The zombie,” I clarified, and he got the message. 

“We actually are conducting some of the tests on him, though it’s too early to tell at this point.”

I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or worried, so I didn’t say anything. 

“But right now, Miss Walker, your only job is to wait, and comply with our requests."

And if it does work…”

“Den would be fully cured,” I finished.

* * *

Waiting sucks ass.

Waiting when you’re there against your will sucks even _ more _ ass.

I guess, technically, I was there by consent, but I didn’t have much choice, did I? When the fate of a nation in in your hands (And arms, and legs, and feet, and where all the major arteries are) it’s kinda hard to say _ no _. 

Gatling was nice enough to update me on affairs over lunch.

“So, it’s been about a month after the first infection, yeah?” I asked. The steak they’d given me was fairly passable; it beat having liquid calories pumped into me to prevent me from fainting. Gatling sat on his Chair of Authority, shuffling reports.

“The first case was reported on September 18, in Mercy Hospital, Pennsylvania. That’s all we know; The city was overrun within days, and Pennsylvania was overrun within two weeks. At that point, the virus started…changing.”

“Mutating? Like, the genetics changed, so you couldn’t track it?”

“Not quite. The virus changed the nature of the infected themselves.”

Ok, this was getting pretty freaky. “How so?” 

“Infected that spit corrosive acid. Infected that can tear a man, limb-from-limb, in one or two hits.”

Shit.

“Infected that can leap several times higher than the average man.”

“So that’s what Denver was. Is.”

“Correct. Interestingly enough, the mutations seem to be more…coordinated. Intelligent, so to speak. There have even been some reports of them working together to kill uninfected, though they seem to be exaggerated…”

“So the infection…It just makes them want to kill?”

“Yes.

“And you don’t know why.”

“No.”

_ Aren’t you awfully helpful. _ I thought. _ Maybe it’s just as well the military took over. _

* * *

Gatling left me be soon afterwards to do whatever the hell it is Directors do (Besides giving exposition and looking smug), leaving me with a solitary attendant to watch my vitals, and several more questions in my head. (E.g, how did Gatling know my name? For all I know, he raided The Cabin and stole my driver’s license. Either that, or the NSA is more thorough than I thought).

“I’ve only met him for about 15 minutes,” I muttered. “And yet I was to punch him in the groin."

The attendant taking by blood pressure laughed. “God and Gatling work in mysterious ways.” She said. “You get used to it. Feeling dizzy?”

“No,” I replied. 

“Good. I’m just glad I’m posted up here. I heard all the other CEDA outposts have been destroyed; Especially the one in Washington.”

“What happened there?”

“Well, apparently they took on a group of carriers, but they managed to escape. In the process, the facility was overrun, and the whole operation was lost.”  
“Damn. Must’ve been some gang.”

“I’ll say. It’s most likely the reason they decided to tranquilize you, instead of confronting you outright.”

So _ that _ was the pain in my neck. Then again, if I hadn't been knocked out, I probably would've burned this joint down, too. 

“So, what exactly is gonna happen to me?”

The nurse straightened up. “Basically, we take as much blood from you as we can without putting you in immediate risk. This, of course, means extensive bed-rest; you need to take it easy from here on if you don’t want to put yourself in danger.”

Awesome. This was going to be a fun however-long-they’re-keeping-me-here.


	15. The Stakes

The next few days were filled with boredom, tedium, dizziness, and doctors.

They were always there, hovering over me, like they were observing some rare, vicious animal at a zoo. They asked the same damn questions about a million times each (“Are you dizzy? Experiencing lightheadedness? Is the room spinning? Can we get another pint from her?”) or tried to make me eat excessive amounts of nutrient-rich crap. Basically, I was being treated like a very ill person, for the exact opposite reason.

Gatling, I didn’t see much of. He was there, occasionally, on the edge of whatever horde of doctors were assaulting me that day, but he’d usually leave before I could throw any questions his way. 

So I was mostly kept in the dark on what the hell was happening to Den. This left me plenty of time for speculation during the quiet moments of the day, when I stared at the ceiling and tried not to resent the fact I was strapped to a hospital bed in Canada.

Chances were he was still in coma, but I still wondered how he was doing. All the while I asked myself the same questions:  _ What would he be like when he woke up? Would it even work? Would he forget, all over again? Would he even wake up? _

It was like worrying about the bear again, but worse. At least I had Denver to talk to, then, and at least I still had a gun.

Sometimes I’d go back to that moment, on that last night. When it was just the two of us, against the Hideous Floral Couch, and everything was quiet and the outside world didn't mean anything.

Then it’d hurt too much to remember, and I would go back to worrying.

* * *

It was by the third night that I heard something.

I wasn’t sure what time it was (There weren’t any windows in the ward, so which drove me nuts) but I knew it was fairly late at night, since the lights were out. I was trying to get some sleep, (Which was proving impossible) when I heard a couple of orderlies jabbering down the hall, stopped by the door.

“—Fever is still the same, but he seems to be stabilizing…” 

I snapped out of a state of half-consciousness. 

“—Convulsing, like he’s fighting it, though Director Gatling says to continue—“

The orderly’s voice lowered, and I couldn’t hear her. It was all I could do not to jump out of the bed and sneak up for a closer listen. Then, her voice rose again. “—Dr. Jenner reported possible shock, though the blood type is universal.”

“Did he say whether it’s working?” Asked what I assumed to be the other orderly.

“We don’t know, Now, Eric in Ward 8—“

He voice faded away as they continued down the corridor.

I wasn’t sure what to think of this. All it did for me was fill my head with more thoughts, and my stomach with more worry.

* * *

On day 6 or so, when I was seriously beginning to contemplate making like the group of carriers and breaking out of the facility, Gatling decided to show his face.

“Good news.” He said, actually sounding cheerful., despite the dark circles under his eyes.  _ Looks like someone’s been going without sleep for awhile. _ I thought.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to hide my anticipation. “Does my snot cure cancer?”

“Sadly, no, though I think we can count our blessings at this point.”

“Spit it out, then.”

“The vaccine we developed  _ works _ , Miss Walker. The antibodies in your blood are enough to block the virus, and eradicate it. Distribution starts as soon as it would be viable.”

“Which is…?”

“One week for the closer areas. Up to a month on large-scale.”

“That’s quick, for a vaccine.”

“It  _ is  _ a time of national emergency, Miss Walker. Time is of the essence.” 

“Still, it seems awfully streamlined.” I said, dubiously. “Do you have a means of mass-production? Besides me, I mean.” (Hey, the world might be at an end, but I would personally rather not stay in a CEDA ward forever)

“In fact, Miss Walker, we  do .” He said, giving me a knowing, smug smile that made me madder than a badger in an outhouse. (Trust me. I’d know.) 

Gatling continued. “While it hasn’t been perfected yet, we have a means of cloning your white blood cells to produce enough antibodies for the vaccine. At least, until a synthetic one can be produced.”

I decided not to breach the topic of how exactly they tested this; all I’ll leave it to is that I suspect the CEDA is far less ethical in their methods than they wish to divulge. Instead, I asked Gatling another question.

“So, does this mean I can leave? You don’t need me anymore, do you?”

There was a little flash across Gatling’s face, like he didn’t like the question, but it soon disappeared, and was replaced by his usual stoicism. 

“Not exactly, Miss Walker.,” he said, his tone neutral.

Thought so. I knew I should’ve broken out of here when I had the chance.

“The reason being?” I asked, keeping my tone guarded.

Gatling sighed, like he knew I wouldn’t like what he was about to say. “It’s too much of a risk.”

“Risk? You have the samples you need. You just said you cloned them,” I said, trying not to let my rising anger show.

“Until we can discover a synthetic vaccine, Miss Walker,” Said Gatling, icily, “Your immune blood is the only hope for combating the disease. The virus has an infection rate of 98.5%--and the remaining 1.5% are carriers, as far as we know, who can still carry and spread the disease. Approximately 38% of the population is dead, or infected, and that toll rises every day. The entire country is in quarantine—not even imports are being made, which is devastating to the economy in itself. Martial law has been established in all major cities that remain, and rationing is occurring as we speak. Though we do have the samples we need, Miss Walker, if we lose them, then the Green Flu  _ will  _ ravage the country. We have to keep your nearby, at least, until we can find an alternative.

I stayed silent. Hell, maybe I  _ would _ be strapped to a hospital bed forever.

Gatling interrupted my thoughts. “Besides, Miss Walker; I believe you have another reason to stay here.”

I filled in the blanks. 

“How is he?” I asked, quietly. 

_ Damn you, Gatling, I know you’re stalling, so I don’t actively try and kill you over this, but I’m not going to let this pass. _ I thought, hotly.  _ And I’m going to play along, because I’m worried. I’m not going to forget, though. _

“Doing well, according to the Quarantine Ward.”

“Define, ‘well.’ Not dead, you mean?”

“Just the opposite. All traces of the virus seem to have been cleared from his system.”

My jaw unclenched. I stopped breathing. 

_ He’s completely cured. _

_ Oh. My. God. _

“Miss Walker?”

I shook myself out of my mental exultation. “I’m fine.” I said, off-handedly, trying to hide my joy. “Is he awake yet?”   


“No, he’s in a state of unconsciousness. Scans show brain activity, though they’re fairly inconclusive.”

“So you don’t know what it’ll be when he wakes up.”

“No, we don’t. All we know is that, even if he does recover, the virus will have permanently…  _ altered _ him.”

“Altered?”

"The virus causes excessive brain damage to its victims, causing extensive brain damage, and repairing them on a repeated basis.”

“Repairing? Last time I checked, Gatling, brain cells don’t grow back.”

“Let’s say that the virus has some…unusual conventions. Advanced regeneration is just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. In any case, it permanent damage seems to be more extensive on non-mutated individuals, typically called ‘Common’ Infected; The damage is typically so extensive, it’s unfixable, cure or no. For mutated infected, we wouldn’t know.”

“So you don’t know if he’ll try to kill us or, or end up a vegetable.”

“No, Miss Walker. We don’t.”


	16. Forgiveness

<strike> Hunter! </strike>

<strike> “Help me! Oh god get it off--“  </strike>

<strike> I’m sorry </strike>

<strike> Need another 200 cc’s </strike>

There’s a light above me. It’s too bright.

It makes my eyes hurt.

<strike> “Nice kong-jump, man.” </strike>

My eyes hurt before. A long time ago. I tried to scratch them. To stop the hurt.

<strike> “I’m Marzia” </strike>

So many noises in my head…

“Dr. Pasteur, he’s awake.”

There’s something over my face. Over my nose, over my mouth. I can’t smell.

I want to take it off, but I feel tired.

Now there’s something in front of the light. A shape.

“Can you hear me?” It says. It sounds funny, all stuffy in my head.

I move my head.  _ Yes. _

The shape says something else to some other shape. It’s still too bright.

So tired…

<strike> “What’s your name?” </strike>

“Don’t worry. You can rest now,” says the shape. 

Now the shape stops making noises, and it fades out, and I close my eyes and go back to the dark.

* * *

In the hours before the inevitable, (There were six. I counted ‘em) I was filled with the sort of unpleasant, creeping feeling of dread that comes before a big math test, or going to the dentist, or meeting someone you nearly killed.

Actually, no. This was worse; I’d take graphing vectors  _ any _ day.

It felt awfully lose-lose, either he would be in a state where he didn’t even remember who I was, or he would, and I’d have to face the fact that the last time I saw him, I was about to put a bullet through his head.

Conversation doesn’t get any more awkward than that, I’ll tell you.

* * *

It was early evening when they brought him in.

They wheeled the bed in next to mine, close enough so that I could see his face. It was odd enough to see him without his ever-present hoodie, and seeing him stuck full of IVs, and his hands strapped to the bed (To prevent any ‘incidents’ presumably) made it all the weirder.

Still, you could tell it was Denver, No one I know has eye-scars like that.

I watched in silence as several miscellaneous doctors, nurses, and technicians adjusted equipment, checked vitals, etc. before finally departing, leaving one nurse monitoring him, who shushed me before I could even say anything. “He’s had a long day,” she said, in a voice that left no room for argument. “Let him sleep. You can wait a little longer.”

So I did.

* * *

There’s light again, but not as bright.

I can smell, too. It smells…like something I smelled before, like chemicals and cleanness and…

Her.

I can smell her before I can see her. I’m used to it being under the smell of wood and smoke other things, but now that’s all I can smell.

There’s noises in my head, too, but it’s quiet now.

Something’s gone.

The red, hot thing in my head…the noises that said  _ hunt _ and  _ chase _ and  _ bite  _ are gone. There’s more noises there, but the one that was in my head the longest… is  gone .

It makes my head feel funny.

I try to turn to  _ her _ , but there’s things on my hands and arms.

Just like before…

“You’re up.” 

I turn my head away. There’s someone else there that I can’t see.

“Can you hear me?”

Nod. My throat feels dry.

“Wt’r.”

The person gives me some, from a cup.

It feels less dry now, but it still hurts. I still try to talk.

“ ‘S Mar OK?”

The other person smells confused, under all the chemicals. “You mean Miss Walker?” she asks.

I don’t know who that is, but she’s pointing to Marcy, so I nod. The other person nods. “Miss Walker is fine. Let her sleep—she’s been up half the night.”

The noises in my head keep getting louder, so I close my eyes.

It hurts to hear them.

<strike> ‘Are you in there?’ </strike>

<strike> “It’s tearing at me! Get it off—“ </strike>

“Whr’m I?” I ask. “Wh’t h’pnd?”

“You don’t know?”

_ I remember… _

I try to hear the noises properly.

<strike> It’s me, Marcy </strike>

Smells..

<strike> It would have been better </strike>

Pain…

<strike> KILL </strike>

Open up my eyes.

I hurt her.

I almost killed her.

There’s wet stuff coming from my eye, and it hurts them.

It happened before, but I don’t know when.

“Are you alright, honey?”

The other person  nurse is smelling worried, and she’s looking at me funny. I shake my head.

“T’rd to k’ll her.” I say.

She sighs, and shakes her head. “Hon, you’re better now. You’re talking to me. You still remember who she is. You don’t have to worry, she’s alright.”

_ Mar isn’t hurt _ . It makes me feel a little better.

But only a little.

“W’ll sh’..fr’gve me?” I ask.

The nurse smiles at me, in a nice way, like someone did a long time ago but now I can’t remember. “She waited for hours for you to come, and then waited for you to wake up, until she passed out. Really, she needs to get a good night’s sleep, the silly woman,” she says, looking a Mar. “So stubborn. You should, too, and you can see her in the morning. And I promise, hon, she won’t be angry at you. Just the opposite. She’ll forgive you, no trouble. But for now, leave her be. Just wait.”

So I do.

* * *

There’s always a feeling of muzziness when you first wake up from a deep sleep, like a computer that needs to boot up. In any case, it usually takes a moment or so for you to become conscious, shake the sleep from your eyes, and answer life’s important questions, like,  _ Where am I? What happened? Why am I wearing a lampshade and holding a pool noodle? _

In this case, as it was, it took me a minute or so to get my eyes used to the non-celestial lights, scold myself for drifting off, and get my thoughts in order. I was still fighting drowsiness when a voice jolted me awake.

It was the voice that I heard remember how to speak, haltingly at first, and then fairly fluently as time went on. It was the voice that I unwittingly taught to say several curses, or that would shriek every time I fired my gun. It was the voice I first heard cry out for help, and the voice of the person I’d grown to love over the two weeks that seemed years long and eons ago.

“Marm” It said.

I knew that voice anywhere.

I jolted upright, turning to the source.

And there he was, lying on the next bed over, awake, his brown eyes open and friendly, and not trying to kill me.

And they recognized me.

“Den.”


	17. Trials and Revisions

I wanted to jump up, right then, and hug him and talk to him and ask him if he was being treated right, and kick some ass if he wasn’t, but I couldn’t (Thanks to the IVs) and didn’t, so instead I just smiled till I felt like I’d cry, and then I did, a little bit, out of sheer relief.

_ Stop being such a damn wuss. _I thought, but I did, anyways. 

I think I couldn’t’ve stopped it, anyways.

“Denver.” I said, through the blurriness of my eyes and the relief flooding through me. “I’m sorry. I did it of survival, and I nearly succeeded, and if they hadn’t stopped me in time—“

“Did what?” He asked. His voice was sort of scratchy, like it was when I first found him, but still recognizable. 

I gave him an incredulous look. _ Maybe he doesn’t remember. _I thought, but I plowed on nonetheless.

“Den, I nearly shot you through the head. It’s sort of hard to miss.”

“Oh.” He said, staring at the ceiling. “That. To be fair, I tried to kill you, too.”

“You were infected with a zombie-rage virus, Den.”

“I could’ve controlled it.”

“No, you couldn’t. I, however, can control whether or not I shoot you!”

“You did it for survival, Mar. You did what you had to do.”

“Den, you nearly _ died. _”

“So did you.”

“Well, you managed to snap out of it long enough for me to escape, just so I could go back and kill you! You had a _ bear trap _ on your leg, for God’s sake! I was on the verge of putting you out of your misery!”

“Mar, I was about to claw your guts out!”

“Which is why I was putting you out of your misery!”

“Good!”

I stopped, trying to come up with a decent retort, bit I couldn’t. There just wasn’t any fight left; It was like it was all drained out, and replaced sort of a clean, empty feeling in me.

I sighed. “Let’s put this behind us, ‘k? We both did what was…_ natural _ for us, so let’s just call it history and move on. The important thing is that we’re safe, right?”

“Right.”

“Even if we are lab-rats for the CEDA.”

“Yeah.”

“So, how are you?” I asked, after a pregnant pause. I wasn’t really thinking. At this point; just enjoying the drunkenness of solace in my head.

“Fine.” Denver said, happy to switch topics. “My arms and legs hurt a _ lot _, though. And I feel pretty stiff.”

“About that...”

“So, how did we get here? And why am I not…?” Den tried to make a gesture with his hands, but was blocked by the straps, so he simply grimaced, toothily.

“Craving for human flesh, you mean?” He nodded.

I sighed. “This is probably gonna take awhile...”

* * *

He stayed quiet for a long time after I told him.

He was just lying there, staring up at the ceiling, like he needed to mull over what I just said before he could believe it. 

I left him be.

Eventually, though, he broke the silence. 

“What’s it mean for us?” He asked, quietly.

I shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know if they’ll keep us here, or if they’ll let us go…or what’ll happen to you.” I trailed off, trying not to let the cynical side of me suggest any ideas. (None of them were pretty. Trust me on this.)

“Mar?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think they’ll take you away? Separate us?”

“If they do, Den, I’ll give them hell. I’ll make sure we stick together. I promise.”

* * *

I wish Marcy still had her books with her.

Maybe should could read to me then, and all the empty parts in my head that keep making noises would be quiet, and I’d feel normal.

I remember back home, with her next to me, and the smell of smoke and wood and dirt and a little bit of fear, like before. I want to be back there, but without the fear.

"Marcy?"

“Mmm?” she says, sleepily.

“How did you find me?”

"You d'ya mean?"

"Like, how did you find me? How did I get to the Cabin?"

She smells sad, for some reason. “You were still sick, then. You attacked me, and I thought I killed you, but…”

There are more noises in my head now. The smell of burning, the taste of blood, a big sound like a crash, and falling…

“You were trapped in the wire fence. I felt bad for you, and was about to end it for you, and…You spoke to me. And I guess I saw something in you, because I helped you…” she sighs. “You looked so damn helpless, I couldn’t stop myself.”

“When I was in that dark-place,” I say, slowly. “I heard…something. You said you were sorry.”

“I was. I still am.”

"You don't have to be."

She looks over to me. Her eyes are all narrow. "You don't have to be either."

She sighs. "Let's... not get into this. In any case, we're gonna get through all this lab-rat, CEDA crap. I'll make sure of it. Right?"

"Right."


	18. Resolutions

Gatling was nice enough to leave us be until  _ after _ breakfast. Being swarmed by a multitude of scientists, doctors, and maybe the rest of America’s remaining population asking you questions makes for a lost appetite. 

“Did the subject attempt to attack you at all during the past 6 hours?” one asked. Several others were chatting with the ward nurse, and yet more were warming on Den, which was probably making him claustrophobic. 

“Did the subject display any symptoms at all? Spasms? Hallucinations?” Another asked. 

“Y’know, he can tell you himself,” I said, annoyed, but the doctor didn’t hear me. The interrogation continued for another few minutes, when suddenly the crowd parted like the Red Sea, each falling silent, or scribbling away madly on clipboards. 

Gatling had arrived.

“Hey,” I said, trying to hide my irritation. “Nothing like seeing your beautiful face this early in the morning.”

Gatling ignored the comment. “I trust you’re keeping well, Miss Walker.” He said, level-headedly.

“Just fine, till you decided to assault us with science.”

“All for a good cause, Miss Walker.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Growled Denver.  _ Good to see he developing a sarcasm complex. _ I thought, trying to avoid smirking.

As Denver said this, some of the whitecoats gasped; whispers of  _ It can talk! _ rippled through the crowd. I gave them a dirty look; All they needed to have done was ask the nurse what had happened the night before, and they wouldn’t need to be so shocked.

“Forgive my colleagues, if you would, Miss Walker,” said Gatling. “They just arrived from the mainland to assist in research and vaccine production.”

_ Yeah, they’re an awfully organized bunch. _ I thought hotly.

“I trust you two had a peaceful evening?”

“Fine and dandy.” I replied.  _ Well, at least until you arrived.  _ “D’ya mind untying Denver over here?”

Denver tried to grin, like he was saying, ‘No, I’m not going to murder everyone in my immediate vicinity. Flesh, me? No, of course not!’

It looked more like a grimace, though_. Note to self:_ _Work on his people skills._

Gatling gave me a dubious look, so I kept my face straight. I hoped I wouldn’t have any heads around.

However, he relented, waving his hand at two (Albeit very reluctant) whitecoats, who hurried to the task. As soon as the untied the knots, they hurried back to the crowd, which seemed to be edging themselves to the door. You could practically cut their tension with a knife.

Den, however, didn’t move much, other than sitting up a bit more and rubbing his wrists where he was tied down. The whiteouts visibly sagged with relief, and went back to whispering among themselves. Gatling raised his eyebrow, but ignored them.

“So, Gatling.” I said, making the first move. “I know you don’t make for much small-talk, so you probably aren’t here to trade recipes. What do you want?”

I heard a poorly-concealed snort from Denver.  _ It’s nice to have someone who appreciates your humor around here, _ I reflected. Gatling remained stoic, and the whitecoats were too busy eyeing Denver like a rabbit eyes a fox.

“I’m here, firstly, to ask a few questions, Miss Walker.”

“Fire away.”

“Firstly.” He said, turning to Denver. “You say he cannot recall anything at all?”

“I can  _ talk _ , you know.” Den growled. “And I don’t.”

I cringed, inwardly. It was a sore subject for him, I imagine.

Gatling sighed. “I thought just as much. Dr. Pasteur—the main consultant of the case—reported that while the virus is gone from his system, it has left some less removable mutations."

Denver held up his claws. “Like these?” (The whitecoats took a unanimous step backwards)

“Those, and several muscle groups, possibly. Tests are still being done, but they seem to be several times more powerful than non-mutated varieties.”

“I can still jump?”

“In all likelihood, yes.”

“So it’s just my hands, and my legs.”

“And his memories,” I said, cutting in.

Gatling nodded. “This is all speculation, of course. Yours is a completely unique case.”

“Unique?” I asked, confused. “There aren’t any other infected you’ve cured yet?”

Gatling shook his head. “There have been…attempts. All failures, ending with the subjects in a vegetative state at best. None have seemed to retain any basic cognitive function, let alone memories. Denver is, so far, the most responsive case so far.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“So he’s the only cured infected alive.

“Correct.”

“So…what now? What’s going to happen?”

“As stated before, Miss Walker, while the vaccine has been completed, the risk…”

_ Yes, risks, _ I thought, bitterly.

“…Of a loss of a valuable resource for the CEDA is too great, if we were to release you.”

“So I’m a back-up blood-bank, essentially.”

“I would say that, Miss Walker-“ He started, but when he saw my look, he added, “But, yes, essentially, you would be a ‘back-up system’ if there were any further… _ incidents _ .”

“When the shit hits the fan, you mean. Again.” 

He ignored the comment. “I can only assume you have no living relatives, Miss Walker?”

I shook my head. Dad was gone. Mom was gone, and I hadn’t even  _ known _ her, much less her family. I hadn’t spoke to Uncle Whit in years; He could be eaten by zombies, for all I knew.

“Very well,” said Gatling. “Until a synthetic vaccine is produced, then you and your companion—“ he shot a gland at Denver—“Are considered wards of the CEDA and national government.”

I balled my hands into fists, my anger rising like lava through a volcano. “You can’t do that, Gatling. I have rights. We both do.” I said, but I knew it was a losing battle. Gatling probably didn’t give two rat’s asses about rights.

I turned out to be correct.

“This is a time of war, Miss Walker.” Said Gatling, coldly. “And while the enemy might not be of usual convention, the government is treating it as such. We could, if we wanted to, convict you of treason, and of resistance to aiding the war effort.” 

Goddamnit.

“Or we could, also, simply make you disappear. No-one would notice, would they? But, because the CEDA cares for the people—“

_ Like it does, you son of a bitch.  _ I growled, inwardly.

“We are willing to make accommodations. The plane for the Arizona CEDA base leaves at 700 hours on Saturday. We will provide for transport and housing, and all you would need to do is comply to our standards. And you have my word.” He said, looking me straight in the eye, “That once a synthetic vaccine is discovered, you and Denver would be free to go.”

I didn’t trust him. Not in 7 kinds of Hell.

“10 minutes.” I said. “Give us 10 minutes. Alone.”

Gatling nodded. “Fine,” He gestured to the door, and the white-coats obediently filed out.

* * *

When the door closed behind them, I let loose string of curses that I won’t print here, since It’ll probably turn your hair white. All I’ll say is that Den probably increased his vocabulary at an exponential rate just from that.

“That son of a…” I growled, after I’d finished. 

“There’s no choice,” Said Denver, breaking off my cuss. “Is there?”

“Damn right.” I replied, punching the palm of my hand in an attempt to let the anger out (It didn’t work) I sighed.

“He smells trustworthy,” Said Den. I looked at him like he was nuts. 

“Denver.” I said, flatly. “He just threatened to make us  _ disappear _ . Men like that aren’t trustworthy. Trust me. And what the hell does trustworthy smell like?”

Den shrugged. “He just does. I don’t like what he says, but I think we have to go with it.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, I told Gatling our decision.

He remained stone-faced, but I had a feeling the smug bastard was gloating on the inside. “Very well.” He said. “The plane leaves for Arizona on Saturday. Any questions?”

“We’ll be together, right?” I asked. The whitecoats started muttering, and I resisted the urge to flip them the bird (And do much worse, besides.) 

Gatling nodded. “Other than occasional tests, you’ll stay in the same compound.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The, I stopped myself. “Tests?” I asked. “Like what?”

“Simply measures of physical abilities on Denver’s part. And the occasional blood donation. Nothing more.”

“No dissections, you mean?”

“None at all, Miss Walker.”

I still didn’t take his word for it, but what could I do? “Right.” I said.

“Fine. Any further questions?” 

I did, in fact, have several questions, but knowing Gatling he’d probably dodge them like the slippery bastard he was. Plus, I was craving some scientist-free, life-changing decision-free time with Denver. 

“I’m good,” I said, turning to Denver. “How about you?” I asked him.

“Yeah. One.” Den said, turning to Gatling. “Where’s Arizona?”

The Director sighed. “Remind me, Caroline.” He said, to a miscellaneous technician standing next to him, “To give our guests an updated atlas, when you have the chance.” And then he rose from his Chair of Authority, and left us be.

* * *

“Well, it looks like we’re officially guinea-pigs for the government.” I sighed, after the hubbub died away.

“I have no idea what a guinea pig is, but yeah.” Said Denver. “I’m glad we’re leaving here. I hate the way this place smells.”

“I agree with you on that, buddy, and I don’t even have an advanced olfactory nerve. At least we’re out of here by Saturday. Which reminds me…”

I turned to the attending nurse. “What day is today?” I asked her. (Seriously, there’s no sense of time around here. The bastards even took my watch.)

She was checking my IV drip. “It’s a Thursday,” she said, not looking up from her task.

You were right, Dad. Thursdays suck ass.


	19. Epilogue

At the end of most zombie stories, you see the main heroes riding off into the sunset. Zombies are trailing after them, but you don’t know what happens next. 

Not with this one.

Gatling tells me the vaccine is out now, if only on the border-states along the Mississippi, and initial trials look promising. By the end of 2 months, everyone along the river will be immune. By year’s end, all the States should be vaccinated. I don’t know if it’s the truth, but if Den’s right, I’ll take Gatling’s word for it.

A happy ending, you could say.

Oh, and over 100 million people are dead.

That’s 100 million wives. 100 million husbands. 100 sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, friends…

The war might be coming to a close, but, trust me, nobody’s celebrating.

Sure, some of them might still be alive. Uninfected, even, ‘cos if you’re infected, you might as well be dead. There’s no cure, anyways, according to our friends in the CEDA, and infected are dying in droves from dehydration, and exposure, and otherwise.

The economy’s gone to hell. Billions of dollars in damage, trillions lost in workers and supplies. Half the country (Which is all there’s left) is on rationing, surviving on either stockpiled supplies, or foreign donations. (At least, from countries willing to import to us again. There aren’t very many.) 

Not that I’d know. Lab-rats don’t have to care.

Some of the whitecoats, when they’ll actually talk to me, call me a hero. A savior, even. And I want to tell them to shut the fuck up.

You know why? Because I’m not.

All I did was run. Survive. Not spill my precious immune blood on the ground, fighting zombies. There are other people out there that died, trying to save others. Fighting to protect who they loved. Fighting to live. 

Fighting not to be left behind, or for dead.

What did I do? I hid. I ate some MREs. I had a few misadventures. You could call it a survivor's guilt, but I think it's a burden I can bear.

I don't regret it, in any case. I'm not much for heroics, and it's not like I have anything to turn back to. Dad's gone. Whit's gone. My apartment was carpet-bombed. Hell, they even took The Cabin as government property. (Which started a shit-storm on my part, but that, like the Badger Incident, is a story for later.)

Am I happy about it? Hell’s Bells, no. Every time I see Gatling, I want to do things to him that would make the pilot back in Maine look like he got a little cat-scratch. I’ll tell you, being a lab-rat is no career a person should aspire to.

Then again, I don’t think I aspired to anything that happened over the past month. What can I do about it, anyways? I’m government property now.

Maybe it isn’t such a happy ending.

But, you know what? Even with all this crap going on, I know two things:

  1. I am alive.
  2. I have Denver.

It isn’t all I need. 

But, sometimes, it’s just enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all - hoped you enjoyed this. Please leave a review and a kudos if you did! (or if you didn't. I can handle criticism.)
> 
> Yes, there will be a sequel. I will be posting the first chapter soon. Stay tuned.


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